


Trompe L'oeil

by crocodilepatronus



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angry Sex, Dorian Gray AU, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, loveless sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:11:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodilepatronus/pseuds/crocodilepatronus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>loosely inspired by The Picture of Dorian Gray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Desiderata

Sometimes in life you can pinpoint the exact moment when everything changed. Life could be strangely neat that way even when it seemed so messy in many other regards.

For Jimmy, his life changed completely and in every way the moment he met Thomas Barrow.

It was a whirlwind summer for Jimmy unlike any he’d ever had in his life. Only twenty years old and as rich as sin after the death of his employer, a Lady Anstruther. Lady Anstruther was an eccentric, reclusive, woman whose only family she was on bad terms with and who was particularly fond of Jimmy who’d been her footman. Jimmy had still been surprised as anyone to have been left the lion’s share in her will.

However, the prospect of never having to work a demeaning job or worry about making ends meet again was not one that was hard to get used to and Jimmy immediately bought an overly luxurious flat in London where his neighbors were lords and ladies and furnished his wardrobe with suits fine enough that he could dine with the queen. Fully equipped he’d hoped to embark on a lifestyle of high society parties and drinking, music and scandal, that he’d yearned for long enough but had soon discovered that money can only get you so far and there’s none more discerning in who they keep company with than the English aristocracy. It seemed his pedigree was insufficient to warrant association.

 He would’ve been lost if not for the unexpected and advantageous friendship he’d made in mid June with the Duke of Crowborough.

Jimmy was equal parts fascinated and repulsed by the Duke. He was a vain man but not entirely without reason- he was handsome, cultured, clever, and charismatic. He was also as self centered and opportunistic as a wild animal with no morals to speak of. In the month and a half that Jimmy had known him, he’d shown him the highest and the lowest places of London- from tea parties with duchesses to late night/early morning rendez vous in opium dens where Jimmy had tried absinthe for the first time.

The Duke’s interest in Jimmy was no mystery to him. He’d felt the other man’s gaze burning into him across the room from their first meeting. Philip (the Duke’s real name) had been the one to come to Jimmy, seeking him out in the dark corner of the crowded room.

“So you’re the Cinderella everyone’s been talking about?” he’d said, finely crafted lips pulling into a predator’s smile. And Philip was a predator, through and through- the worst kind, in fact. The kind that kills you with charm and cleverly arranged words before he ever has to bare his fangs.

“I’m Ji- _James_ Kent.” Jimmy had stammered in reply. He bristled at being called a cinderella. And from what he’d heard of the Duke’s own reputation he could’ve thought of a few choice words to say in reply but his position in London was unstable enough as it was.

“and I’m very bored.” the duke replied, his eyes roaming slowly over Jimmy’s face and then neck. “Won’t you regale me with some stories of working class life? I feel as though I’m drowning in empty conversation- who’s marrying who and what charities are in fashion to donate to. If I have to hear anymore, my head will cave in on itself. You and you alone have the power to save me.”

And Jimmy had let himself be flattered by that and even by the way Philip was looking at him despite the fact that he in no way reciprocated that desire. And he thought what a chance it would be to befriend a Duke and if he were still a greedy footman trying to scrape his way up in the world, what he would do in this situation. So he smiled coyly at him.  

“Shall I tell you all about how my fairy godmother brought me here in a carriage made of a pumpkin?” Jimmy asked and watched the other man smile brilliantly, revealing two rows of white, perfect, teeth.

“Oh, do.”

They’d spent the rest of the evening together. Jimmy had never spent time in the prescence of someone who could seem like he was hanging on your every word but still be the master of the conversation. And the next morning he’d received a letter at breakfast inviting him to visit the Duke’s own London house for tea with the message ‘you left your glass slipper.’

His friendship with the Duke was like a skeleton key that could open any door in England. Often once a week or more he’d be whisked away on some different adventure barely hanging on to Philip’s coat tails for dear life.

And Philip continued to look at Jimmy as if he were devouring him with his eyes. And Jimmy would say nothing about it. Even when Philip would stroke the side of Jimmy’s face and tell him how beautiful he was or when his hand would come to rest on his thigh when they sat together at the opera.

Jimmy was inexperienced with love or atleast he was inexperienced at giving it, though receiving it was nothing new. Since he was young he’d known he was good looking and as he got older it became nearly a chip on his shoulder that girls thought it appropriate to titter at him behind his back and whisper about how handsome he was as if he didn’t have ears or eyes to hear and see their shameful display with. Jimmy had never liked most girls his age- noisy and soft and too easily manipulated to be good company. Not that boys of his age were much better- oafs with no sense of dignity, always chasing after a girl’s skirt.

Jimmy was an island. That was how he’d always been and how he’d always come to think of himself. An only child whose mother had died when he was still young and whose father had died when he was a teenager. He’d been independent for as long as he could remember and his affections lay much more in _things_ , objects, ideas, than they ever had in specific people. He took comfort in that detatchment.

Jimmy had no love for Philip but he did love the lifestyle Philip had to offer him.

And when Philip one night led Jimmy to his luxurious bedroom he followed him there willingly and let Philip undress him and leave kisses all across his naked body. And when Philip undressed and lay on top of him, Jimmy kissed him on the mouth. For a moment he even savored the taste of his tongue and the foreign feeling of having another man’s erect cock rubbing against his thigh. Jimmy had used his own hand to work himself to hardness and soon was groaning and moving his hips in rhythm with Philip’s as the other man’s weight pushed his back into the soft velvet bed covers and held both their cocks with his hand running up and down their shafts in time.

It was late June and Philip’s thighs were moist with sweat which repulsed Jimmy and nearly made his cock go soft but he closed his eyes and pushed the feeling away, angling his hips to try to achieve more friction. Soon Philip was moaning with more desperation than before and his body tensed above Jimmy’s in release. Again there was slickness, this time thicker than sweat and on his stomach and it made Jimmy feel unclean. Philip got out of bed and poured himself a glass of whiskey and Jimmy went to the bathroom and cleaned himself off.

When he came back to the room he got back in bed next to Philip and let him stroke his hair.

“Do you not like men or do you not like me?” Philip had asked casually as he pulled away from Jimmy and lit a cigarette. He didn’t look overly offended.

Jimmy shrugged. “I’m not sure I’ve ever liked anyone.” he said honestly.

Philip laughed at this and brushed his fingertips down the line of his neck.

“You’re a strange creature, James. I think you might be more statue than human. But a beautiful statue none the less.”

They’d never spoken of it again but Philip hadn’t ceased his interest in Jimmy. The very next day he’d taken him out again to a gentleman’s club and then later to have drinks at his home. But Jimmy had never seen again the upstairs of Philip’s house or the bedroom with the velvet covers. Even when sometimes he thought Philip wanted to kiss him and even when he touched Jimmy’s face, his hands, his shoulder, for much longer than was appropriate, they never went farther than that.

Jimmy realized that he’d become Philip’s pet. He knew that this had been what their relationship was all along. But it didn’t feel that way all the time. Not when they were amongst others and people treated Jimmy as if he was witty and smart even when he knew he wasn’t being particularly clever. It was because of Philip’s influence that they felt they could enjoy his company. And it was because of Philips’ interest in him that Jimmy was invited out sometimes even without the duke to accompany him. When the summer was over, Philip would return back to his estate and get married (for he’d been engaged since Jimmy had met him, to a bland but rich woman who he rarely spoke of) and Jimmy would be free of his ownership but could still reap the benefits of his friendship. Until then he would enjoy his company to it’s full extent.

In the beginning of August, Jimmy went round to call on Philip for tea and found him in the process of directing movers.

“I’m redecorating. I hate the look of the dining room. I’ve been staring at the same paintings of my great grandparents for years now.” Philip explained briefly. “Ah- this can go on the left.”

Jimmy stopped in front of a large framed painting leaning against the wall. He heard Philip chuckling behind him: “Oh, don’t pretend to be any big admirer of the arts, James. I’ve seen you yawning everytime I try to take you to an exhibit.”

But this was different. It was a painting of a unicorn- so realistic that it felt as if Jimmy reached out to touch, he could feel the softness of it’s fur and yet so beautiful that nothing like it could’ve ever existed in the real world. The beast was standing in a dark place alone and with it’s head bowed. There was something derelict about the painting, Jimmy realized. Something that made it so unfantastical. The leaves on the trees were dried up and withered, the grass was dry and brown. The creature in the painting was abandoned by even the nature around it, just waiting for death.

When he looked at it Jimmy felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness. He hadn’t even noticed that Philip had his hands on his shoulder.

“Are you alright, James? You look as though someone’s put you under a spell.” he laughed.

Jimmy shook his head, lost for words.

“The artist who painted this is a friend of mine. Do you like it?” Philip said, his hand moving to rest on Jimmy’s lower back as he admired the painting from over his shoulder.

“Er-“ Jimmy shrugged, breaking his eyes away from it finally.

“I know,” Philip said, breaking into a grin, “I’ll have him paint your portrait for you. We’ll go next week.”

Jimmy didn’t protest and the next week he found himself following Philip to the studio to which Philip apparently had a key and let himself in without prelude.

“I suppose he’s one of these bohemian artist types you like.” Jimmy said, shuffling his feet as he walked down the hallway. A month ago he wouldn’t have spoken with such candor to a duke but now Jimmy knew that Philip not only didn’t mind but liked Jimmy’s frankness and sometimes even crudeness of speech.

Philip suppressed a laugh.

“No, he’s certainly not. All the same I think you’ll like him.”

Philip opened a door and Jimmy walked into a well lit, hexagon shaped room. There were tall windows stretching from nearly the ceiling to the floor on the walls and opposite from him, open French doors. The high ceiling was made of glass as well and Jimmy thought it looked more like a greenhouse than an artist’s studio. The room was bathed in sunlight but even though it was the beginning of August, the air that day wasn’t heavy with humidity and a soft breeze came into the room from the open doors.

The artist’s back to was Jimmy and he was faced toward a painting he was placing precise brushstrokes on. He was in his shirtsleeves (which were rolled up to the elbow) and a black pinstriped vest that matched his trousers.

“Didn’t I tell you not to come?” the man said without turning around, his voice tinted with a Northern English accent. In one hand he was holding a paintbrush and balancing a palette and the other hand held a cigarette.

The canvas in front of him was of the room itself but the view from the windows wasn’t the urbanscape of London but a garden and mountains in the distance. The realism was breathtaking- right down to the way the light hit the dew hanging off the petals of the daffodils.

“Well, I have to come over sometimes so that you can remember what it’s like to be in the presence of other people and you don’t degenerate into a savage. You’re turning into a social recluse and I simply won’t have it- you’re too charming for the world to be denied of you.” Philip responded coolly, throwing his hat and gloves on the couch as if it were his own home.

“The company of other people is what turns me into a savage, not the absence of it.” the artist said as he turned around and his eyes met Jimmy’s for the first time.

The painting seemed to have extended beyond the canvas for the man in front of Jimmy seemed to him more like a figure in an artwork than he could possibly be a living, breathing, human of this world. His face was pale, sharply cut marble with a painted red mouth and blue gray eyes. His inky black hair was smoothed back save for a loose strand that fell by his brow.

And when he faced Jimmy his mouth parted slightly and his eyes widened and Jimmy knew that the other man was enraptured by him, by the way that he looked. And a part of Jimmy hated him for that.

“…Who’s this?” the artist asked, eyes flicking briefly to Philip who was now reclining on the couch then back to Jimmy as if he didn’t want his gaze to be parted from him for too long.

“As you can see, I’ve brought a guest so do try and behave yourself. If for no other reason than that I don’t want him to think I have bad taste in the company I choose.” Philip said, stretching his legs up onto the couch’s arm rest and fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

“I’m Thomas Barrow.” the artist said, putting out his cigarette in an already overfilled ashtray.

“James Kent.” Jimmy said.

“I want you to paint his portrait. You’ll do it, won’t you?” Philip said, blowing lazy smoke rings into the air.

Thomas smiled tightly, his eyes still on Jimmy. “Why not.”

“I’ve never sat for a painting before.” Jimmy said as he took a seat by the french doors so the sunlight was warming his back. The artist had put a fresh canvas on his easel and was mixing paints, every so often flicking his gaze back at Jimmy.

“Well I’ll try not to make it too painful for you.” he said as he dipped his brush into gold and then light brown and began mixing, squinting at it before adding more of one color or the other on his palette.

While Thomas watched him, Jimmy watched back, warily. From afar he examined the way the man’s slender fingertips held the brush. He’d been painting before Jimmy had even walked in but there was hardly any paint on his hands. _A neat man then_.  Possibly even fastidious, he wondered, as he let his eyes search the room and saw that there was none of the stained tarps and dirtied brushes lying around that he would’ve expected. On the far side of the wall by the door that he’d entered there was a small bookshelf filled with old leatherbounds that all looked worn _. So he’s well read, maybe_.

Jimmy returned his eyes to his painter and caught him staring. Thomas was looking at Jimmy unblinking and when he realized Jimmy was looking back, a flush rose to his cheeks and he smiled shyly, looking back at his canvas.

He’s a silly man…, Jimmy thought with dissapointment. Worse than Philip.

Yet when he looked at the artist he felt so much more than he ever had looking at Philip. And it was uncommon for Jimmy to feel **_anything_** when he looked at someone. He sat, fidgeting his hands on his lap, and tried to analyze what it was. It was nearly akin to hunger. A strange mixed feeling that was pervading both his brain and his body. Like curiosity but with all the neediness of great thirst and all the desperation of fighting for air when underwater. He felt it in his stomach but not solely there, it extended out to the furthest extremeties of his body seeming to only end in a prickling sensation at the tips of his fingertips and toes, with it’s source being someplace deep in the muscles of his chest.

He wondered if he were ill. Then the artist brushed his hair back with his wrist, smoothing it back into it’s neat place. And as he did so he tilted his chin up and absently ran his tongue across his lower lip, soaking it in fresh redness.

And that’s when Jimmy felt the feelings all at once seem to center in his groin and the pit of his stomach and he realized with great shock that the sensation he was experiencing must be lust.

He wanted to ask to leave, wanted to run from the room. He felt he needed to be alone to give deeper thought to this. Jimmy had touched himself before- often to nothing at all. Almost as if it was a habit of boredom more than anything else. Once or twice he had masturbated to pictures but they didn’t really aid the process and so he’d stopped. He’d kissed women before and danced with them but never because he liked them, sometimes not even because he even thought them particularly pretty. They were like objects that he picked up on a whim and used until he grew weary of them. And other times he only kissed a girl because he knew it was what was expected of a red blooded man of his age. Because he hated to be thought of as freakish or in some way lesser. But never before had anyone, regarldess of gender, ignited in him such a response.

Thomas was using a pencil now, filling the room with a light scraping sound of the tip against the canvas. It was strangely relaxing, Jimmy felt. He closed his eyes and focused on the noise and tried to clear his mind.

“Would you like me to paint you with your eyes closed?” Thomas asked, a slight laugh in his voice.

“Oh, he’s probably fallen asleep. James is the sort who has to be occupied by something interesting or he can’t sit still. We must try to find a way to entertain him.” Philip said, sitting up and crossing his legs.

Jimmy opened his eyes. Thomas looked at him intently over the edge of his canvas, a crooked smile playing attractively across his wide, red, mouth.

“And what is it that entertains you, Mr.Kent?”

Jimmy had to wet his mouth before speaking and clasped his hands closed on his lap. “The theater. And music. Dancing.”

He sniffed, looking at the floor to steady himself before returning his eyes up to Thomas’s.

“And what is it that entertains you, Mr.Barrow?”

“Thomas only gets enjoyment out of ruining other people’s enjoyment.” Philip piped up, stretching his legs and standing.

Thomas pursed his lips, his brow furrowing.

“That’s not entirely true.” he pouted, directing his attention to shading something on his canvas.

“That’s not very charming of you, Mr.Barrow.” Jimmy teased.

“It’s good that he knows how to paint because otherwise he’d have no redeeming qualities.” Philip agreed.

“You shouldn’t make fun of me. Not before we’ve agreed on the price I’m charging for this portrait.” Thomas said icily, making Jimmy laugh.

“Oh, surely you’ll do it for free. I’ve paid you in full by bringing you a perfect model.” Philip said with a bright smile.

Thomas rolled his eyes but his stare continued to linger on Jimmy for too long and Jimmy squirmed in his seat.

“And what entertains you, Philip?” he asked as the Duke came to stand beside him, looking out the french doors.

“Anything at all can entertain Philip but only until the moment it doesn’t.” Thomas said tersely while hiding behind his easel.

“How rude.” Philip drawled, turning to Jimmy and brushing his knuckles against his cheek. “I like young, beautiful, things.”

“You like corrupting them.” Thomas added bitterly and Jimmy noticed him glaring at Philip darkly.

The duke chuckled and walked over to the artist.

“Oh, you never needed anyone to corrupt **_you_** , my dear Thomas.”

Jimmy watched intently as the artist’s body stiffened when Philip’s hand slid onto the small of his back where the man’s suspenders were visible underneath the pinstriped vest.

“Thomas and I spent a lovely summer like this together, many years ago.” Philip sighed, resting his chin on Thomas’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around his waist from behind. “Back when ** _he_** was still a young and pretty thing.”

Jimmy didn’t blink or move and neither did Thomas. His eyes were open but staring blankly ahead and his mouth was set in a thin line. He looked like he’d been frozen in place.

“Now he’s just old… and bitter….” Philip practically whispered the words into Thomas’s ear and Jimmy saw something like grief in the painter’s eyes.

“….and probably fat too.” Philip added suddenly breaking into a grin and tickling his fingers against Thomas’s mid section. The other man broke free of whatever trance he was in and batted away the duke’s hands, turning his chin up and straightening his waistcoat.

“Not likely. I’m a starving artist, remember?” he said haughtily, turning back to his canvas.

“Oh, you know I’d take you out to dinner anyplace in London if you’d only write to me once in a while.” Philip chuckled.

“No, thank you. I think I’d rather go hungry.” Thomas sniffed, “besides- who says I want to be seen with you? You’re the one who’s getting old, **_your grace_** , not me. I think I see a bald spot forming at the back of your head.”

Philip laughed uproariously at this and came to stand by Jimmy again. “Do you see what I mean, James? Isn’t he horrid?”

“Oh, yes, dreadful.” Jimmy agreed with a smile.  

He thought it strange. He could see it perfectly now. A younger Thomas even more lovely than he was now. The Thomas standing before him was _handsome_ but Jimmy could see how as a very young man he might’ve been unspeakably _beautiful_. And of course Philip would take an interest in him. But unlike Jimmy, Thomas probably mistook Philip’s attention for love. Jimmy nearly though that was laughable. How funny and strange. How ridiculous Thomas Barrow was. A prickly, mysterious, person with a naïve, romantic, heart. Of course Philip thought he was cruel and horrid- people with such fragile hearts had to be, didn’t they?

“James, are you quite well?” Philip suddenly asked.

“What?” Jimmy said faintly. His eyes were fixed on Thomas whose face showed concern but one hand was frantically scribbling at his canvas with fervor.

“You’re crying, James.”

He blinked and put a hand to his face and felt tears streaking his cheeks.

“Oh…” he murmured, staring at the drops of water on his fingertips with curiosity. “I… I’m not sure… it must be…” he trailed off.

He quickly swiped the tears from his face with the back of his sleeve, taking a deep breath through his nose.

“Something in my eye I think.” he said, shaking his head slightly. He gave a bright, reasurring smile. “I’m fine.”

But he knew that he wasn’t and that the longer he sat and learned about the dark haired painter, the more strongly he’d feel the gravitational pull toward him that he was already experiencing. And that he’d be swallowed whole.

The feeling on that day couldn’t be called love exactly. Jimmy learned that day that if it was love then love was nothing at all like how it was in songs and plays. It wasn’t sweet and soft. It was brutal and ravaging and all consuming like a parasite that was going to rip him apart from the inside out. It was a savage desire to destroy Thomas Barrow somehow as equally as he destroyed him. It was a vicious jealousy of everyone and everything that had ever touched that man before him, for every teacup that had tasted the sweetness of his lips and for every article of clothing that had the luxury of hanging from his body.

For the first time in his life, Jimmy Kent knew what desire was and it was terrible.

That day when they’d left Philip asked Jimmy to dine with him but he’d declined saying he thought he might be catching a cold and went back to his own house, immediately shutting himself up in his room.

When he got there he undressed and stood naked in front of the full length mirror in his room, examining his body and the curve of his cock which was jutting up against his stomach fully erect. He purposely avoided touching himself there- seeing how long he could deny himself of it even though his whole body seemed to be throbbing insistently for release. He walked closer to the mirror, brushing his fingertips on it as he looked into his own eyes.

Jimmy could barely recognize his own expression- sad and desperate looking and drawn in worry.

And he wondered if there was any cure for what was plaguing him and he wondered if he would die from it. Die from wanting another man so much he could barely stand it.

He quickly turned away from the mirror and lay down in his bed and began stroking himself roughly, his hands curling in the bed sheets as he did. And in his mind flashed images of the man he’d met earlier that day and the curve of his sinful mouth and his pale hands and the buttons undone at the top of his shirt where dark hair peaked out.

“F-fuck…” Jimmy choked, gripping his cock hard now and sliding his fist up and down it with great speed, practically sobbing at how much he needed the friction.

He imagined what it might be like to make that man as desperate for him as Jimmy was. To have him pressed against the wall of the studio, lips parted and gasping, and chest heaving with every struggling breath. Suffocating on his desire.

That’s how Jimmy wanted him- at his mercy.

He groaned, circling his other hand around his bollocks and squeezing until it was nearly painful.

Soon his hips were bucking and he was gasping as he reached his climax, spilling cum onto his own thighs and bedsheets.

He fell back against the pillows feeling as if his body was boneless and struggled to breathe. All his life his body had been a servant to his mind and his mind a servant to his personality but now everything was horrifyingly wrong. It was simply out of character for him to have to be servile to a nonsensical passion. It was wrong to have his body react without permission to a vain, silly, man who he knew nothing about.

Jimmy nearly wept when he realized he should never see Thomas Barrow again and real tears did bloom in his eyes when he realized he could never force himself to do that.

His life depended on seeing Thomas again. His sanity depended on **_not_** seeing Thomas again.

With shock Jimmy realized he’d become a creature as lowly as all the others on the planet that would choose to survive at all costs. But he would do everything in his power to retain his sanity as well. 


	2. Felix Culpa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.

When Thomas was 23 he experienced the sort of five minute fame that most artists of his type dreamed of and for about a year he was invited to every party worth going to and every rich spinster wanted him to paint their portrait. But at that time there’d been only one patron he’d really cared about and that was the duke of Crowborough. He hadn’t been the first person that Thomas had ever fallen in love with and he didn’t kid himself in thinking he would be the last but there was no denying that Philip was special.

Philip wasn’t the handsomest man that Thomas had met in London and he certainly wasn’t the richest- in fact he was bleeding his fortune to nothing with his lifestyle. But what had made him different to Thomas was the attention he paid him that seemed so unlike that of other men. Not that Thomas’s experiences with other men had been a particularly insurmountable standard to exceed. Artistic types were more open about homosexuality than others perhaps but it didn’t change the fact that most of Thomas’s relationships ended in tragedy- men getting frustrated with him and leaving in a huff threatening to report him to the police when Thomas didn’t reciprocate their feelings in the way they wanted him to, men admitting that they had actually had a wife and child all along and needed to return to them, men who’d Thomas thought had loved him but who’d been caught and arrested while having sex with another man…. And in the end, his relationship with Philip ended bitterly as well.

If it had ended at all.

Thomas had told Philip he didn’t care if Philip entered a loveless marriage to pay back his debts with some rich heiress. But he cared that Philip wanted to be with other men. He cared that Philip seemed increasingly bored with him, how his affection had turned to cruel teasing and manipulation. Even when Thomas’s heart had belonged to the duke and him alone, he’d begun to realize that Philip’s heart was a vain and fickle thing. Philip loved everything and nothing at all. He loved the way raspberries tasted with white wine and he loved it when it rained while the sun was shining in summer. Philip loved lying on the couch in Thomas’s studio in nothing but a loose dressing gown and smoking as Thomas painted his picture. He loved when Thomas would undress him slowly and kiss his knuckles. But Philip didn’t- couldn’t- love **_Thomas_**. Not the man. Only the idea of him, the fleeting image of him.

And when Thomas had realized that, he’d taken the love he had for the man and shut it up tightly in a room in his heart and waited over time until it had eventually begun to decay. Sometimes when Philip stood too close to him, sometimes when he smelled his cologne on his neck, it was as if the ashes  of the love he’d once held for him were being rustled by wind, but it was nothing more. 

Sometimes Thomas feared that his loneliness would devour him from the inside out. Much of the time it didn’t bother him. He really was a solitary person- whether it was in his nature to be or if it was a forced habit brought on by time spent companionless as a child, he didn’t know, but he could be alone for great lengths of time without it ever bothering him. Furthermore he had no qualms with making enemies with people. He didn’t need them. But sometimes he felt that he _did_ need _someone_. Even if it was only fleeting, or only one night, or only an hour, occasionally Thomas felt a loneliness so profound and raw that if he didn’t try to do something to stifle it, it felt like it would tear him apart.

The feeling had become more frequent, nearly terminal, with age. When he’d been younger and just a struggling artist doing other jobs to pay his rent, he’d had some notion that the world was his for the taking- despite nothing but evidence to the contrary (jobs he resented, lovers who betrayed him, a society that persecuted him, a family that rejected him). He treated everything as if it was fleeting- he didn’t need to work overly hard at as his job because something new would come round the corner soon enough that would be better, he didn’t need to make friends because he knew they wouldn’t be worth his time, it didn’t matter if a lover left him because there would always be someone new for him to charm.

But even Thomas with his seemingly boundless self confidence could only take so many failures before it began to wear him down. And more and more the loneliness which had only come in short bursts in his youth, began to become a constant gnawing that only grew like a hole in his chest and could not be filled by any brief delights or short lived pleasures.

Sometimes he still succumbed to lust and sometimes it was in Philip’s arms. Even years after their official parting, if Philip invited himself to Thomas’s studio- waltzing in and talking and laughing about how boring his rich, easy, life was, Thomas would give in and somehow end up with the other man’s cock down his throat or lying naked on his back amidst paint stained tarps with Philip above him. But those were brief, minor, affairs for both of them that they never discussed either before or after the fact. There was no sweetness left between them.

Thomas could warn himself a hundred times that love never ended well for him but when he saw James Kent he felt the familiar sense of all the carefully wound threads of his more tender emotions that he usually kept hidden from the world in a spool begin to unravel. He’d sketched him that day, happy to have an excuse to soak in the beauty of his appearance. But when he’d seen him crying he experienced a strange sensation akin to a premonition. It seemed in that moment he’d acutely felt the loss of a relationships close, had felt heartbreak, before the relationship had even begun. But it only lasted a moment and then the feeling dissapeared as if it had never been there to start with. In fact, it almost felt as if his heart had never been broken before- as it often did when he found someone new to break it fresh.

But Jimmy was a strange man indeed and it was no wonder to him that Philip had taken such a keen interest in him. He was beautiful to look it but not limited to a traditional way. To Thomas, Jimmy was the perfect subject of a painting. His entire being seemed to encapsulate the mood of those violent renaissance pieces that hung in museums. There was a quiet rage boiling underneath his skin of complex desires and contradictions. He was an enigma. Thomas even suspected that Jimmy was a mystery to himself.

Sometimes when Jimmy came to sit for his portrait he’d walk into the studio looking absolutely confused as to his own purpose there, as if he hadn’t had an appointment and had somehow just wandered in from the streets and found himself on Thomas’s doorstep.

Everytime Jimmy came and sat for him, Thomas was elated. He felt when he was near Jimmy he was breathing in a different air, much purer than what he’d been breathing all his life. He wanted nothing more than to be consumed by Jimmy’s existence utterly. He wanted to abandon his past, his personality, his very body, and simply become the light that reflected off the gold in Jimmy’s hair or the slight moisture left on his fresh, pink, lips when he nervously ran his tongue across them. Jimmy’s entrance into his life was the impetus causing him to make the best work he’d ever done.

But Jimmy was mercurial, and at times very queer and on several occasions had shocked and even hurt Thomas with his behavior. Some days he would come in to sit and be in very high spirits. He’d barely even be able to stay still and would wander around the room, talking about how gorgeous the weather was and dancing along to records on Thomas’s gramophone. He’d grin at Thomas with sparkling, mischevious eyes and stand a bit too close to him than was normal.

But then the very next day, he could come in with a dark cloud over his mood and in a foul temper complain about having to get his portrait done, blaming Philip, blaming Thomas, and then storming out to do better things.

The first time Jimmy had come to sit for his portrait without Philip, he’d seemed very nervous. He was nearly twitching with anxiety and kept looking around the room, avoiding Thomas’s eyes. After he’d settled and Thomas had started his work, Jimmy had asked him many questions about himself with an almost desperate curiosity and Thomas acquiesced by answering them (Thomas knew already that he would surely acquiesce  to any request Jimmy made of him).

Then the next week he’d returned and been a whole different person- completely aloof and indifferent seemingly to Thomas except for the few glances he stole the artist’s way when he thought Thomas wasn’t paying attention.

Thomas had given a lot of thought to Jimmy. When alone after he’d left he’d stand looking out at the twilight from the french doors, smoking, and contemplating him. He’d come to the conclusion that Jimmy was a person of great and terrible insecurity and vanity and that he carried with him at all times on his person a sense of overprotectiveness for his own character. And Thomas had smiled to himself because he thought they weren’t so different in that way.

Paintings should be beautiful to look at but they should carry hidden depths. Well Jimmy certainly held hidden depths, Thomas wondered if he’d ever be able to hold his breath long enough to reach the end of them.

He felt sometimes that Jimmy might be fond of him. On one of the first days Jimmy had visited Thomas, he’d asked him to call him ‘Jimmy’ and not ‘James’ which is what Philip had called him and what he’d originally introduced himself as. It gave Thomas a thrill that he called Jimmy something that even the duke didn’t.

And Philip himself’s appearance in Thomas’s life had become more and more rare progressively. At first he’d sometimes show up to fetch Jimmy after Jimmy was done sitting for his painting. And Philip would waltz in all but ignoring Thomas except to say “you can’t have him all to yourself, Thomas. Jimmy’s in very high demand, as I’m sure you can imagine.” It stung him to hear it even though he knew it was true. Because Thomas did indeed want Jimmy all to himself. But after some time, Philip didn’t come at all and it would be just Jimmy who visited Thomas. Sometimes Jimmy even _complained_ about the duke which of course delighted Thomas.

“He thinks ever so highly of himself but he’s as much a fool as you or I and neither of us would burn away our money like he does.” Jimmy would rant, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth as he leaned against the french doors, stripped down to his shirtsleeves.

Thomas would smile and blush as he always did when Jimmy made the conversation about ‘us’ or ‘you and I’ in reference to the two of them together. He wanted nothing more than to be in a fishbowl containing only him and Jimmy, two halves of an ‘us’, privy to the secrets they both protected so dearly from anyone else.

One day Jimmy was in one of his affable moods where he was playing records.

“I can’t paint you if you don’t stay in one place.” Thomas said dryly as Jimmy tapped his feet to the jazz song, swaying his hips and snapping his fingers, a grin on his face. In these moments Jimmy was the embodiment of summer- from the nearly un-British tan of his skin to the fair hair to the wide smile. He made Thomas want to paint beaches flooded in sunlight.

“You can’t _live_ if you stay in one place.” Jimmy countered childishly, putting a different record on the gramophone. “I thought you liked dancing, Thomas.”

“I do.” Thomas said carefully, watching Jimmy out of the corner of his eye as he put a new canvas on his easal and began dabbing blue ocean hued paint on it.

“Well you never dance with me.” Jimmy said, suddenly leaping close to Thomas and wrapping his arms around his waist. “Come, show me.”

Thomas jumped at the sudden contact but the warmth of Jimmy’s hands against him for the first time was flooding his brain with happy chemicals and as Jimmy twirled him around he could barely feel his feet touching the floor. Finally regaining his composure a bit, Thomas took Jimmy’s hand (leaving the other resting on the small of his own back) and began moving in rhythm to the song playing.

“You dance well, Mr.Kent.” Thomas said, smirking. Jimmy was so close he could practically taste his breath, feel the heat radiating off his body. He could examine his face in such detail- the long, fair colored, eyelashes and the line of his cheekbones…

“Well it seems I’m dancing with an excellent partner.” Jimmy replied, stepping forward, causing Thomas to step back and leading him around the room, humming along with the phonograph’s melody.

Jimmy unexpectedly leaned to the side and Thomas tripped on his foot, falling forward slightly so their bodies were flush against eachother.

“Th-though one that’s a bit out of practice.” Thomas apologized, going red in the face.

Jimmy paused, holding Thomas where he was, pressed against him. His eyes were slowly mapping Thomas’s face in a way Thomas was familiar with seeing painters do to their subjects. Like he was trying to memorize its details.

“Jimmy…” he whispered, his voice a small echo in his throat. To his embarassment he could feel himself hardening from the closeness of their bodies. It had been so long since he’d been touched this way. And much longer at that, than he’d been touched by someone who wasn’t Philip or a stranger. This was different and even though it lacked the physical intimacy that some of those encounters held, it was utterly more satisfying in a strange way. Thomas leaned forward slightly, letting his hand fall down Jimmy’s shoulder across his arm, and letting his erection brush slightly against Jimmy’s inner thigh.

And all at once Jimmy jumped back, looking as if he’d just seen a ghost. Thomas stood stock still, waiting for the repercussions. Jimmy didn’t seem to be breathing, his lips were pale with how tightly they were held together and his eyes were wide and staring at the floor. But despite it all he could see the arousal present in the tent in Jimmy’s trousers as well even if his face told another story.

Jimmy nearly shook his head then swiped his hand across his face and grabbed his coat off the back of the couch, limping slightly as he moved.

“Jimmy, wait. We can- we don’t have to-“ Thomas stammered but Jimmy only shook his head again wordlessly, refusing to look at him as he stormed out of the studio.

Thomas had been sure he’d never see Jimmy again after that and the thought had literally brought him to tears. A while went by without Jimmy coming back to the studio or writing to him. He strongly considered writing Philip to ask if he’d seen Jimmy, if he could somehow convince Jimmy to come back to Thomas but… in the end, Thomas realized that he had nothing to offer Jimmy. Only paintings that Jimmy didn’t seem to care much about. He often complained that he didn’t like sitting for his portraits. He’d be happy to have an excuse to never see Thomas again.

Thomas wept at the loss. He truly believed Jimmy was unique. There would never come another man who could inspire such feeling in him both elating and detrimental. Two nights after Jimmy had stormed out of the studio, Thomas found it within himself to go back through the portraits and sketches he’d drawn of him in their time together. The one that stood out to him the most was the sketch he’d drawn on their first meeting. The one with a single tear rolling down the boy’s face. In the middle of the night he began to work furiously on it, mixing paints over and over again until they were the color that spoke to him, that spoke to Jimmy. He darkened the shadows of the sketch, using what experience he’d gained from drawing Jimmy over and over again since their first meeting, to refine the likeness to him. His tears mixed with the paint, his agony at losing Jimmy present to him in every brushstroke. He poured all of his sadness into his work but in the end it still wasn’t enough and not even halfway through he stopped, retiring to bed defeated.

For many days Thomas was in a state of near comatose, lying in bed and barely eating. He knew he was being overly maudlin and that there had never been any hope to begin with. Jimmy liked girls and dancing. He’d said so their first meeting. It had been stupid of him to have tried to read into him more than that. He couldn’t bring himself to go back to his studio with no inspiration and no Jimmy to keep him company. So he lay in bed and smoked and read the newspaper.

Two weeks after Jimmy had left, Thomas finally did return to the studio and was met with an alarming sight at the door. Jimmy Kent himself was standing outside with his hands in his pockets, looking around expectantly as if he had an appointment.

“Jimmy…?” Thomas croaked weakly.

Jimmy jumped and smiled awkwardly. “Ah- Th-Thomas. Where ever have you been? I’ve come knocking at your door the past few days and nothing. Don’t tell me you’re ill.”

“Not ill.” Thomas said, unsure of what to say or if he wanted to apologize or ask forgiveness. What he really wanted was to hug Jimmy Kent for coming back when he’d given up hope on him.

“Good.” Jimmy said, smiling up at him sheepishly through his blond fringe, “That’s good…”

Thomas smiled back, unable to keep the happiness off his face.

“Well, let us in then.” Jimmy said nodding towards the door.

When Thomas let him in, Jimmy went and pulled out the stool he’d been using before as if nothing had changed, and sat up straight in front of Thomas’s easel. Thomas smiled and put a fresh canvas up. His mind was overflowing with ideas for the first time in days and he didn’t know what to start with first.

“I- er-  have a lot to tell you, actually, Thomas.” Jimmy said, clearing his throat and looking at the ceiling.

Thomas didn’t respond, he was busily mixing paints on his palette.

“I’m engaged to be married.”

Thomas’s hand slipped and paint stained his fingertips blue. He looked up at Jimmy incredulously.

Jimmy’s eyes met Thomas’s and for a moment Thomas was sure Jimmy would avert them and look away but for once he maintained the contact, setting his mouth in a hard, nearly stubborn line.

“It was love at first sight, I suppose.” he said with a shrug. He smirked slightly, his eyes seeming to harden, “She’s a lovely girl. I’ve no doubt we’ll make eachother happy.”

“…and who is the lucky woman?” Thomas asked flatly, dragging his paintbrush lazily up the canvas with no intention behind it.

“An actress actually. I’ve been admiring her on stage for some time now.”

Thomas forced a smile that was nearly painful to him. “Well, when you get married I’ll paint her portrait for you too if you like.”

Jimmy’s face registered something close to surprise and then settled again and he stammered “G-good…. Good.”

He’d sat quietly that whole day as Thomas did a drab, uninspired painting. Then the next time he visited, Jimmy as he was more prone to do, got up and began walking aimlessly around in front of the french doors as Thomas painted him. The sky was overcast and it looked like it might rain. It wasn’t right. Jimmy belonged in sunlight. He seemed to take on a whole new persona when backed by the light of a gray sky.

“Women are interesting, Thomas. Or rather, I should say it’s men that are interesting. I think both sexes can be extremely simple at times but in different ways.”

He paused, craning his neck to look up at the sky from where he stood.

“D’you think it’ll rain today?”

“Suppose it might…” Thomas said noncommitally.

“Anyway, what was I saying? Oh- of course. W-women. Or rather, men, wasn’t it? Men are so superficial, don’t you think, Thomas?” Jimmy said, finally turning.

“Don’t take Philip to be your measuring guideline.” Thomas replied with a wry smile.

Jimmy didn’t speak again for the rest of the afternoon, looking thoughtfully out the window and smoking cigarettes.

 Then when the sun began to set he said he’d better be off for he was going to the theater to see his fiancee again. Thomas wished him well with a bitter smile and let him leave. Then he went to where Jimmy had been standing and picked up one of his discarded cigarettes. He brought it to his own lips and relit it, watching the sky become painted with red and purple.

He didn’t want his relationship with Jimmy to become something like his own with Philip- unfulfilling and bittersweet. He didn’t want to have to suffer Jimmy being dangled in front of him if he could never truly be his. But he had no choice in the matter- he couldn’t cut himself off completely. Thomas knew now that he couldn’t live in a world in which Jimmy Kent existed but Thomas was without him. Even if it meant torture, he would endure it to be by his side.

He resolved this to himself and tried to even be chipper about it- that Jimmy even deemed to speak with him after their awkward encounter a few weeks previously. But it seemed he needn’t have made such a resolution after all because of what happened the next week when Jimmy came into the studio again.

Jimmy seemed fairly normal if not a bit more on edge than usual when he walked in and took his usual seat. He immediately began smoking. Thomas usually chided him for it but he just sighed this time and resigned to paint Jimmy with a cigarette. After a few minutes he ventured to make conversation.

“So… how is your fiancee doing?” he asked nonchalantly, eyes flicking up to Jimmy over the top of the canvas. He watched Jimmy’s face go pale and panic flicker through his eyes. He quickly stamped out his cigarette in the ashtray, shaking his head.

“Don’t ask me about that, Thomas. I don’t want to talk about it.” he spat out as if the words were venom in his mouth.

Thomas furrowed his brow, tapping his own cigarette on the side of his ashtray.

“Trouble in paradise?”

Jimmy glared at him and for a moment an unexpected fury crossed across his features.

“I **_don’t_** want to talk about it.” he huffed air through his flared nostrils, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “There’s nothing going to come of it… bloody waste of time…” he muttered.

“….Sorry I asked.” Thomas muttered.

Jimmy stayed for about an hour longer, looking nervous and preoccupied the entire time and then finally left saying he had things to do.

Thomas tried not to let himself be happy about it. But he didn’t try very hard. Jimmy was a single man again it seemed and even if it didn’t mean he would be with Thomas, it gave the artist a sick sense of satisfaction and relief that he could atleast pretend that Jimmy was his once more. It put a skip in his step, it brightened his mood more than he would’ve even liked to admit to himself.

But the next time Jimmy visited, he was nervous and didn’t speak at all. He looked sleep deprived to Thomas- twitchy and pale. That did dampen his spirits. He didn’t want Jimmy to be anyone but his, but not at the price of his happiness. That day he sketched a canary in a cage made of paint brushes and wires.

The next week felt like autumn, and indeed august was coming to a fast close. It made Thomas extremely anxious. He feared that things other than the weather would change. That as the sun started to recede, so would Jimmy’s prescence in his life. The spell would end as the days became shorter and darker, and one day Jimmy would be gone as if he’d never come in the first place. Things with Philip had begun to disintegrate after summer had ended the many years ago when they’d been in “love”. So much was fleeting. Sometimes Thomas felt a desperation to paint things, to paint things as they were or how he thought they were or how he imagined or felt them to be, because he feared they’d never be the same again and it was of the utmost important to preserve those moments so that they’d never be forgotten.

He reminded himself sadly that even if Jimmy left, he’d still have many portraits and sketches of him to keep. Unlike the ones of Philip which he’d almost entirely destroyed in a youthful temper tantrum after their parting. Jimmy was different. He never wanted to smother or destroy the memories he had of Jimmy. Even the painful feelings were treasures to him. And when Jimmy was in the same room, it all felt so vivid to him- as if every happiness, sadness, jealousy, and lust Thomas had ever cut into Thomas was an open wound, each moment they’d spent together a fresh tattoo seared onto his soul.

With these thoughts he returned his attention to the portrait of Jimmy on the first day they’d met which he’d been idle about working on. Looking at it he realized it was an illustration of his grief at Jimmy’s leaving which had been the last time he’d toiled over it with any real focus. It was dark and the expression on Jimmy’s face in the portrait seemed sadder than he remembered it was.

He set about correcting this, adding details and shadows, lines and contour where there was blank space to imbue it with more feeling and painting a background of colors. He didn’t want it to be gaudy- never that. He wanted it to be Jimmy, all the colors of his soul which were many and varied.

The next weeks were the best of Thomas’s life. Jimmy seemed to hold no grief over his parting with his young actress and with the duke gone back to his mansion in the country for the season, his time was free to be spent in Thomas’s companionship. For a change, they started leaving the confines of the studio which Jimmy said he was becoming frightfully bored of, and Jimmy took Thomas around London, showing him all of his favorite places.

Thomas felt his time with Jimmy was bliss. He still knew that he deeply loved Jimmy and that that would never change. He would always want him. But to his surprise, being his friend caused him less pain than he’d thought it would. He could spend hours with Jimmy talking and laughing with no hint of an ache for wanting more. He’d never known a person he could feel comfort with by their very prescence with no ulterior motives for sex or money or connections. Thomas wondered if Jimmy was the only person in the world who had intrinsic value to him- whose very existence could make Thomas happy in and of itself.

And Jimmy seemed to mirror these feelings as he confided in Thomas one afternoon as they strolled through the park, kicking up piles of dry leaves with their feet as they went.

“You’re my most special friend, you know, Thomas.” Jimmy sighed, looking up at the canopy of red and orange leaves still hanging from the trees.

“That phrase is ripe with intrigue.” Thomas chuckled after a moment to collect himself and try to will the blush out of his cheeks.

Jimmy didn’t look at Thomas when he said innocently, “Is it?”

They walked for a few more steps in silence. Thomas was smoking and Jimmy gestured to him to let him have a drag off his cigarette.

As the smoke curled from his lips Jimmy elaborated, “I mean it though. I’ve been quite alone most of my life. I haven’t any family and even friends seem to just come and go. But you’re different, Thomas. I feel as though….” Jimmy pursed his lips thoughtfully. “… as though we’re _kindred spirits_ I suppose. Is that the word for it?”

“I…” Thomas wanted to say ‘ _I’ve been alone all my life too. You’re the only person I’ve ever cared about this way. You’re the only person who has ever cared for me._ ’ but instead he took a breath and finished in a strained, faltering voice, “…Yes. Kindred spirits maybe. Though ‘spirits’ sounds a bit morbid in a way. Like we’ve already passed on.”

Jimmy barked out a nervous laugh and kicked at the leaves on the ground, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Y’know, Philip used to… Philip used to say that…” Jimmy began but paused and for a moment looked as if his throat had closed up, preventing him to speak. “..that h-his sort… That is… men who like other men… He used to joke about how people said his sort would go to hell when they died.”

Jimmy had stopped walking and was staring at the ground. Thomas stood a pace behind him, looking at his back. The afternoon light filtered through the red leaves, leaving a dapple of dark amber shade over his figure.

“…Philip thinks he’s very witty.” Thomas finally replied, rather lamely.

“He said it was fine with him if that was the case because heaven sounded boring anyway. And all the interesting people would be in hell. He said it sounded like a party.” Jimmy’s voice was choked as he spoke but he laughed at the end- a hoarse giggle.

Sometimes Thomas thought Jimmy was a bit mad. Not in any inherent chemical way, but he thought Jimmy was a person with a complex mind living in a world that was more simple than he thought it was or wanted it to be. He stepped forward until he was by Jimmy’s side again and their shoulders brushed against eachother. He handed Jimmy his cigarette.

“I heard that if Adam and Eve had never eaten that apple in the garden, there’d be no art.” Thomas said.

“Mm. And no clothing either.” Jimmy agreed, nodding his head. “Sounds rather convenient, that.”

He passed the cigarette back to Thomas who inahled deeply before handing it back to Jimmy.

“Do you every worry about it? Heaven and hell?” Jimmy asked as he took a drag.

“Not really.” Thomas answered easily.

“I didn’t either. Until I met you.” Jimmy said very quietly, his eyes staring blankly at some spot in the distance. And before Thomas could respond, he kept walking ahead.

By the time Thomas had caught up with him his mood had changed and he was talking about where they should go dancing that night.

 

Thomas continued to paint Jimmy but more often from memory now than with Jimmy as a model. He painted the days they spent together, the conversations they had.

It was a particularly warm autumn and on days when the sun shone brightly, the two of them would go out to public places and Jimmy would point out strange looking or interesting looking people in the crowds to Thomas and between the two of them they’d create that person’s backstory, their likes and dislikes, their secrets and loves and Thomas would eagerly sketch it in a notepad as they did. He treasured the notepads that were filled of charcoal and pencil drawings of people with funny large noses or strange hats that he drew turning into birds perched upon their heads or particularly stern gentlemen that he drew in knightly armor leading an army to a medeival battle. Jimmy kept some of them too, he said he hung many of Thomas’s drawings up on his walls.

“They’re the only thing that give my boring house any life.” Jimmy would say with a laugh, likely not knowing the effect that his words had on Thomas.

It wasn’t all roses, of course. Jimmy was still very much Jimmy and his good moods would come and go. He’d make plans with Thomas and then abruptly cancel them or seem to go pale and then leave suddenly when they were together. There was a turmoil in him that Thomas couldn’t begin to understand.

The air began to grow colder and soon when they went out they were wrapping scarves and long coats around themselves and shivering at their first steps out the door. For one week it poured an unforgiving, cold, rain. Thomas’s life had changed when Jimmy had walked through the doors of his studio for the first time, with his smile and gait that seemed to give off arrogance and insecurity at the same time, with his expressive, sunkissed face. And on one of those rainy, late autumn, nights, Thomas’s life changed again.

The door slammed open and Thomas jumped, sitting up from the settee in his studio and standing up to see Jimmy, soaked through with rain, coming down the hallway in long strides.

“Thomas, we need to talk.” Jimmy said.

Thomas looked at him quizzically. Jimmy was shivering all over and there was water droplets dripping from the edge of his messy hair onto the floor.

“Well get out of some of those clothes first.” Thomas said after a moment. “Looking at you’s making me feel cold.”

Jimmy nodded weakly and stripped off his jacket.

“Sorry…” he mumbled as he did, taking off his waistcoat as well and laying it down on a table in the studio. “I… I’m getting your studio all wet…”

He sniffed and ran a hand through his hair, taking deep breaths and closing his eyes as if he were psyching himself up.

“Jimmy, are you alright?” Thomas finally asked and Jimmy jumped as if he’d forgotten Thomas was there.

“I’m…” Jimmy turned away from him, chewing on his thumbnail. “I’m not really…”

“Well…” Thomas continued slowly when Jimmy didn’t confide anymore “…Whatever it is, I’ll help you. Just… come sit down. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“You will help me?” Jimmy asked, turning rather suddenly and advancing upon Thomas, stopping just short of him. “Because you love me? Is that it?”

Thomas’s mouth opened and closed uselessly several times before he averted his eyes to the ground.

“You thought I didn’t know or something? It’s obvious.” Jimmy said and Thomas in spite of himself felt a deep pain buried in his chest at the sharpness of his words. “You’re always doing whatever I like, whenever we’re together you don’t pay attention to anybody else, and the way you look at me…”

Thomas glared at the floor, his hands fists at his sides.

“Well if it bothers you then why spend time with me? For the attention?”

“Because I couldn’t leave!” Jimmy shouted. Thomas’s head snapped up and he saw that Jimmy’s face was screwed up in pain, his hands combing through his hair and tears wetting his eyes.

“I wanted to! I tried so hard to ignore it but this… this never happens! And now it won’t go away!” Jimmy cried out.

Thomas took a step closer to him, concerned now.

“What won’t? What won’t go away?” he asked urgently.

Then all at once Jimmy was pressing his mouth to Thomas’s in a clumsy, bruising kiss, his hands desperately running and pulling through Thomas’s hair, his fingernails scraping against the skin of his neck as he pulled him closer. And  every feeling of desire Thomas had sealed up inside of himself like a scar re-opened and bled with fresh passion.

Jimmy’s mouth was moist and tasted like rain water and his lips were softer than velvet, impossibly soft and sweet. He was paralyzed for a moment but his body seemed to come back to life before his mind did and without thinking he was soon leaning forward into the kiss, allowing Jimmy’s tongue to go between his lips and pulling at his mouth with his own.

When Jimmy finally pulled away he nearly collapsed into Thomas’s arms as if it had sapped all his energy and weakly sobbed against his shoulder.

“I didn’t… It’s like there’s something caught in my chest. Something alive and constantly moving, constantly pulsing, it’s like a _parasite_ in me. These feelings have made a home in my body and no matter what I do, all I want is to be with you. Every part of me is infected and I can’t- I can’t live without you. It hurts so badly when we’re apart, to not be able to touch you, to feel you breathing, knowing that you’re somewhere moving and speaking and being alive without me next to you. It hurts so much, Thomas. Please, please, save me.” Jimmy’s hands clung to the back of Thomas’s shirt.

He wants me, Thomas thought numbly. And for a moment, a sick sense of satisfaction twisted in the pit of his stomach as he thought: not Philip, and not some stage actress but me.

“Jimmy…” he started slowly. “I’ve loved you all along. You know that…”

His voice trailed off for he feared it might quaver thinking about all the nights he’d spent alone knowing he couldn’t even warm his bed with another man’s prescence if it wasn’t Jimmy, and thinking that Jimmy would never come to him.

“I didn’t think you cared about me.” he muttered, closing his eyes and letting his face brush against the top of Jimmy’s head, enjoying the coolness of the rain dampened curls on his heated skin. But only for a moment before Jimmy pulled away, holding him at arm’s length.

“You’re the only thing in the universe that I do care about, Thomas.” he said very solemnly. Then his eyes seemed to drift and he placed his hand on the center of Thomas’s chest, his fingers slowly undoing the buttons. Thomas stood stock still, scared to move. Jimmy was a bit like a wild animal that way. He lived in fear of spooking him and sending him running back to whatever dark and enchanted place he’d been borne from. The first 3 buttons of his shirt were undone and Jimmy was stroking his palm in broad movements down the hair of his chest.

Then quite suddenly Jimmy was pressed against Thomas once more, his lips leaving savage, biting, desperate trails along Thomas’s neck, down his collarbone, licking and biting and sucking at every inch of flesh his lips and tongue could reach.

Thomas stifled the groan in his throat, letting his head fall back as Jimmy wrapped his arms around his waist and placed his hands on Thomas’s buttocks, giving a firm squeeze that made his head spin.

Thomas couldn’t deny the thrill it sent up his spine just to feel **_wanted_** if nothing else. Even Philip in their affairs hadn’t made him feel wanted in ages. If anything he made him feel worse about himself. Philip didn’t have any real interest in Thomas anymore- he’d grown bored with him ages ago but Philip was like a spoiled child who would rather destroy a toy than have to share it with anybody else. And Thomas was certainly his toy.

“If you want me to fuck you then you have to beg me for it.” is what Philip would say to him when he had Thomas pressed up against a wall in the studio, whimpering and rutting his hips against the duke’s. And Thomas would always refuse at first, dragging his fingernails against the back of the duke’s neck and trying to pretend he hadn’t heard him. But Philip would push him away, until his back was flat against the wall, grimacing with disgust at him as if he was some over zealous whore. “C’mon, Thomas, do try to make it worth my while.” he’d sigh. “I have much younger, prettier, men I could be having fun with instead of you right now.”

And Thomas would have to give in, wrapping his arms around the duke’s neck and pulling him close, his eyes stinging with tears he was too proud to shed and whisper “Please, please, Philip… I need you… I need you…” over and over again against his neck and the shell of his ear until the other man finally had mercy on him.

Thomas would never play with Jimmy like that. He’d never use his desire against him.

He began moving his hands across Jimmy’s back, then pulling the back of his shirt free from his trousers. But he felt Jimmy shiver underneath him and in an instant the younger man had jumped back.

“Sorry.” Thomas said automatically.

“No, it’s just...” Jimmy took a deep breath through his nose and looked Thomas in the eye. “I’m just… I’m scared. And I… If we’re going to do this, I have to be in charge. Just this time. Just… because it’s my f-first time.” Jimmy stumbled over his words nervously, it nearly would’ve been cute if he didn’t look so genuinely terrified. His eyes looked as big as saucers and his lips were trembling.

“Alright.” Thomas conceded easily.

“Just…” Jimmy swallowed. “Let me… let me start a-and don’t… don’t touch me unless I guide you first. Let me touch you.”

“Fine.” Thomas said, perhaps a bit too quickly, nodding his head. “Tell me what to do.”

He nearly winced at his own eagerness. But he’d known from the start that he would do anything for Jimmy. It shouldn’t surprise him that the same was true even more so when his cock was painfully hard and straining at his pants, especially since it had been months and months since he’d been with a man.

“Lean… put your back against the wall…” Jimmy said, nodding his head and Thomas did as he was told. Jimmy was soon pressing his body against him, kissing him again with a great hunger and frantically undoing the buttons of his shirt, pulling it apart and thrusting it off his shoulders before attacking his chest again with his mouth- this time running his tongue along his nipples, the line of hair trailing from his chest to his stomach and eventually ending up on his knees.

Thomas was panting, he pressed his palms against the wall behind him to keep his balance, to keep his fingers from wandering into the tangles of Jimmy’s hair, careful not to touch him when he’d forbidden him to.

Jimmy’s breath was coming out hot over Thomas’s groin through his pants and after a moment to catch his breath, he’d begun leaving tender kisses across the shape of his cock outlined in the fabric.

“J-Jimmy… please…” Thomas arched his back, wincing to keep his self control not to grind his hips against Jimmy’s sweet mouth which he knew would feel oh so much better there than it had even on his own lips.

Jimmy made a low noise and nuzzled his nose, his face against Thomas’s groin.

“Can I… can I take these off…?” he asked finally, starting to run his fingers across the waistaband of Thomas’s trousers.

“I think I’d be a little dissapointed if you didn’t at this point.” Thomas laughed breathlessly.

Jimmy’s mouth was on Thomas’s naval, running circles over it with his tongue as he pulled down his pants.

“Have you… have you ever done this before…?” Thomas asked as Jimmy sat back on his haunches, gazing- rather admiredly Thomas thought- at his cock.

“Sort of. Once.” Jimmy mumbled and Thomas felt a pang of jealousy that he wasn’t the first. It was a stupid time to be feeling jealous though and he quickly cleared his mind of it once Jimmy began trailing kisses along his shaft.

The younger man pulled away rather abruptly and began to undress himself, pulling off all of his clothes and throwing them away on the floor. Thomas was without breath or speech taking in Jimmy’s form. He was art. Toned and muscular as Adonis and skin evenly gold and hairless. His cock was hard and leaking against his naval and he was stroking his slender fingers along it rhythmically. 

“Can I touch you now…?” Thomas asked.

Jimmy smiled and leaned into Thomas, carding his hand through his hair and leaving fresh kisses against his jaw.

“Mmmn…. no, I don’t think so.” he said, running his palms down Thomas’s thighs. Thomas squirmed and hissed at the touch which felt electric and overstimulating.

“Alright but… wait, a tic…” Thomas said, limping away to Jimmy’s surprise. He almost laughed at the offended look on his face. He found a small tin of petrol jelly in a drawer- an emergency stock in case of Philip’s visits.

 _I’ll never have to fuck Philip again_ , Thomas thought suddenly as he took the petrol jelly out and began walking back to where Jimmy was waiting patiently. _Jimmy loves me._

He turned Jimmy toward him, cupping his cheek with his hand and pulling his face to his, kissing those soft lips again. He’d never be alone again.

“Sorry. I know this is against your rules.” Thomas murmured.

“S’alright.” Jimmy said, looping his arms around his waist. “Can we… can we go to the couch?”

Jimmy’s touches were tentative and done with trembling hands. Thomas had never had a lover like him. He sat back and watched with close scrutiny as Thomas dipped his fingers in the petroleum jelly and began slowly slicking his own hole with one finger, then two, until he was grinding his hips down hard against his hand, biting down on his lower lip to stifle the whimpers caught in his throat. Jimmy’s eyes were wide, fascinated, and evidently aroused by the way his hand slowly gripped his own cock which was dripping profusely.

When Jimmy finally climbed on top of Thomas, they were both already close and their skin was hot and damp against eachother.

“I love you.” Thomas whispered as Jimmy stroked his fingers down Thomas’s hip bones before grabbing them, raising his hips to meet his own and slowly pressing himself into him.

With a few grunts and mixed sensations of pain and pleasure, Jimmy was fully seated in him and Thomas locked his ankles behind his lover’s waist and his arms around his neck, pulling him down on top of him. What Jimmy may have lacked in experience he made up for in passion. Every jerk of his hips was desperate and struck deep within Thomas, making the older man groan and arch his back up to meet his movements.

“Thomas… Thomas…” every exhale from those perfectly formed, rosy, lips was his name when his mouth wasn’t preoccupied leaving bites across Thomas’s collarbone to stifle the loud moans that made his chest tremble.

Thomas’s own voice was coming out only in strangled cries and moans as he gripped his hands through Jimmy’s hair to pull himself up and force his body along Jimmy’s length. He wanted so much more of everything- wanted it faster, harder, deeper and he groaned with satisfaction when Jimmy adjusted his position slightly and began to thrust with new fervor.

Their sweat was making it harder for Jimmy to grip Thomas’s hips and he moved his hands down to his thighs, dragging his fingernails against them. Thomas didn’t care that Jimmy was covering his body in red marks from the places he’d bitten and sucked and scratched. He wanted it. He wanted Jimmy to use his body as a canvas with every brush stroke being a mark of affection.

“Unngh.. God… Thomas… oh.. fuck…” Jimmy’s face screwed up beautifully as he thrust the deepest he had yet and filled Thomas wholly, coming deep inside of him. Thomas’s unattended cock spilled cum onto his torso from the sensation and a moment later it smeared onto Jimmy as the younger man fell onto Thomas, boneless and limp and exhausted.

When Jimmy had caught his breath he pulled himself up on his arms and repositioned himself over Thomas so his thighs were squeezing Thomas’s cock between them and without a word began slowly moving up and down along his shaft that way, his sweat slicking the movement. Thomas let out a groan deep within his chest, hands gripping Jimmy’s buttocks as he moved languidly, drawing out Thomas’s orgasm slowly until Thomas was scratching his nails against his skin in desperation and his breathing was coming out in harsh pants.

“Jimmy… please…” he finally wheezed and Jimmy sat back on his haunches and wrapped his hand around Thomas’s cock, circling his thumb around the head once to gather the liquid there on his fingers before setting a fast rhythm of jerking his fist tightly across his length, leaving Thomas no room to breathe before his body was spasming in pleasure and he was seeing white in his vision and coming over Jimmy’s knuckles.

It had been a long time since anybody had stayed with Thomas after the ‘main event’ of the evening had taken place. Jimmy stayed lying on top of Thomas for a while and they shared a cigarette and pulled a blanket over themselves when their sweat started to freeze on their skin and they were both shivering. Thomas wrapped his arms around Jimmy too, and buried his face against the top of his head, breathing in the scent of his hair and closing his eyes to memorize the warmth of his body.

After a time Jimmy wiggled out of his grip so he could look at Thomas’s face and stroke his fingertips down the sides of his cheeks. Thomas blushed under the scrutiny and turned his head away.

“What?” he laughed when Jimmy turned his head on his side, continuing to observe him.

“What do you mean ‘what’?” he laughed

“Why are you staring at me?”

“You’re beautiful, Thomas.” Jimmy said quietly, stroking his hand down the side of his face, down his neck, to the center of his chest where Thomas was sure he could feel his heart beating in a frenzy.

“No, I’m not.” Thomas almost laughed incredulously, “You are.”

Jimmy was the one who looked perfect everyday he’d come in regardless of the time or the weather. Every emotion that crossed his face and he’d retained his beauty, no, even his fear and his annoyance or pouts only seemed to enhance his loveliness.

“You are beautiful, Thomas.” Jimmy said, his face falling slightly and his eyebrows knitting together as he looked into his eyes. He sighed, laying his head against Thomas’s chest. “I hate Philip. I’ll never forgive him. For making you think you’re not beautiful.”

Thomas barked out a laugh. “Philip? What’s he done?”

Jimmy didn’t respond. He seemed to be fuming though his thumb was still affectionately stroking Thomas’s bicep so he could safely assume the anger wasn’t directed at him.

“Do you sleep here often?” Jimmy finally asked after a while of the two of them lying in silence other than the faint pitter patter of rain against the windows.

“Sometimes. When I’m working hard.” Thomas said. “Oh.”

He sat up, smiling though Jimmy was now frowning at being displaced from his spot.

“I’ve finished it! I… I completely forgot.” Thomas said, standing up and fumbling around in the dark and pulling his trousers on. He found the light and came back to Jimmy who was looking at him skeptically with his hair a fluffy mess and a blanket wrapped around himself.

“Finished what?” Jimmy grumbled.

“Your portrait.” Thomas said, pulling back the cover from the easel in the center of the room. He waited but Jimmy didn’t get up until he looked over at him expectantly. “Well, come and see.”

Jimmy stood up, almost reluctantly it seemed and walked over, dropping the blanket from around himself as he went until he stood in front of the painting, stark naked.

Thomas stood back, watching his reaction. It was a bit uncanny to see the two faces looking back at eachother. Like a strange mirror.

Jimmy’s face registered emotion that even Thomas couldn’t place though he now counted himself the best in the world at reading Jimmy. He seemed to smile for a minute but then the smile flickered and his eyes misted with tears.

“Do you… do you like it?” Thomas asked a bit anxiously. It was a strange experience to want recognition for his art. It was the first time he’d truly painted something where he cared about what someone would think of it. Usually his artwork was essentially for himself alone or a complete pandering to a customer’s will. But now he desperately longed for Jimmy’s approval.

Jimmy didn’t speak but reached out his hand, almost as if he were sleep walking and brushed very lightly the tips of his fingers against the face in the portrait.

Thomas reached out, touching his wrist.

“Well, don’t touch it. You’ll smear it.”

The touch seemed to awake Jimmy from his reverie and he turned his head sharply to Thomas, looking at him as if he’d forgotten he was there and was annoyed by his intrusion.

“And what if I want to smear it? It’s my painting isn’t it? I should be able to touch it if I like.” he snapped. 

Thomas’s hand fell back to his side.

“Don’t you like it…?”

Jimmy swallowed, turning his head back to the portrait. He turned the edges of his lips up briefly but it didn’t hold and his eyes still swam with tears for a reason Thomas couldn’t think of.

“Of course it’s lovely.” he laughed once, harshly. “I wonder if I really look like this. I think it’s more real than I am.”

His last words seemed to make his voice catch in his throat and all at once he looked overcome with a terrible misery and nearly swayed on his feet. Thomas put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“Of course it’s not.” Thomas laughed nervously. He cupped Jimmy’s hand in his cheek, turning his face away from the portrait. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Come back to the couch, lie down with me.”

Jimmy nodded weakly and held Thomas’s hand as he led him back to the settee. Jimmy curled up on Thomas again like a cat and let Thomas stroke his hair and kiss him gently until the two of them had fallen deeply asleep.

Thomas woke up the next morning with sunlight on his face and sat up, scratching his head. Jimmy was not with him and for a horrible moment he wondered if it was a dream. But no dream could be that vivid and the fact that he’d fallen asleep in just his trousers indicated that he hadn’t drifted off in the midst of his work. Jimmy’s clothes were gone so he assumed he’d left in the morning. He quickly got dressed and left the studio, writing a letter to Jimmy as was their custom, to meet him later in the day.

But he never got a response. Thomas worried about seeming over eager so he didn’t press the matter but the next day he visited Jimmy’s house and was told by his butler that Mr.Kent had departed the morning before apparently to go to the country for a stay but had not left an adress which he could be contacted at or indicated where he was going.

Thomas paced his studio, smoking, and trying not to panic.

He did not succeed in not panicking when the days turned to weeks and there was no word from Jimmy. The painting stood in the middle of the studio, a grim reminder.

Thomas did not paint, couldn’t, not without his muse. It would be absurd to even try. But he went to the studio everyday, hoping Jimmy would return looking nervous and bashful as he had the last time Thomas had scared him away.

But Jimmy did not return and Thomas’s spirit fell to dejection. Each day the painting in the room only seemed to become more twisted and Jimmy’s painted face seemed to mock his loneliness. He wanted to tear it apart but he couldn’t. It was the best likeness he had of Jimmy and he couldn’t rid himself of it for fear that he’d forget his face.

Jimmy’s prescence was like a ghost in the studio- he was in the painting’s face, the sound of the phonograph, even the smell of rain or sunlight in equal parts made Thomas’s heart ache for him. And for many weeks he stayed haunted and miserable, moving through his life much like a spirit himself knowing he didn’t belong in the studio or in London or in any place where Jimmy was not.

 

 


	3. Saudade

It was the beginning of December when Philip turned the key in the lock to Thomas Barrow’s studio for the first time since summer. He thought to himself as he did how much he disliked the way Thomas’s studio looked in winter. He associated Thomas Barrow with warm weather- his sweet summer dalliance.

Philip despised change.

He wanted to always imagine Thomas in his studio with the windows thrown open to let the breeze into the humid room. Thomas hadn’t worn his hair with so much pomade all those years ago when they’d first met. Philip hadn’t the faintest idea why he’d changed his hair- he looked older now. Not ancient, but older. More mature. That was probably why he’d changed it in the first place… It seemed that Thomas’s smiles came easier back then too. Of course, they’d never come as easily as his scowls, but they’d been wider, less restrained. It annoyed Philip sometimes, that Thomas had dared change- that anything did. That the seasons would change, casting different colors on all of his favorite spots, turning the footpaths to mud and withering the leaves off the trees. When he saw Thomas lately, it seemed to fill him with a quiet fury. He wanted nothing more than to punish him for being such a poor sport and getting older and wiser.

Philip knew he had a cruel streak within him. And he knew that a similar streak ran through both Thomas and James. For Thomas he’d almost found a kindred spirit as the artist was shrewd and opportunistic and selfish, which Philip rather liked about him. But he was also sentimental and he always drew things out- he wanted everything to have more meaning and longevity than it was meant to have and Philip found that both pitiful and annoying.

James on the other hand was quite the pragmatist through and through- there was cold blood flowing under that warm, sun kissed skin. But in some ways he was nearly too perfect to touch. He was more like a statue than he was a human. And like he did with so much of his art, Thomas had breathed life into him.

Philip hadn’t failed to notice the change in James since the first day he’d met the artist. James had been a child before he’d met Thomas, free from the taint of desire and sentiment, and after he’d met the artist he’d bloomed like a young maiden in the throes of her first love. His cheeks would shine rosy colored when Philip would pick him up from the studio and he’d seem lost in a haze for the rest of the evening, regardless of how hard Philip tried to distract him. The boy was clearly head over heels but even he didn’t seem to completely know it. 

Philip’s footsteps were loud in the hallway. He winced at the sound.

“Oh, Christ.” he said as he stepped into the wide room. In the brighter seasons, the windows of the room served to let in light and display the view, the sky. But in winter they only made more real the ugly nature of winter- the white, lightless sky, and the dismal grey landscape of a frozen city.

“What a ghastly reception.” Philip sighed. He tossed his hat on the side table where it landed on two empty glasses and sat on the edge of the settee by Thomas’s feet. “Aren’t you atleast going to offer me a glass of that?”

Thomas pulled his legs up and sat up, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to slick it back but it didn’t stay and stubbornly fell over his eyes once more.

“What do you want?” Thomas gestured widely with his arm, his hand flapping loosely on his wrist as he did. “It’s open bar.”

Philip sighed, examining the assortment of half empty and empty bottles littered on the ground around the settee.

“They may all be too cheap for my style. And it’s a bit early in the day for this sort of thing, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t found it so.” Thomas declared, promptly taking a flask hidden underneath the seat cushions and opening it.

Thomas took a long drink and Philip lit a cigarette and crossed his legs.

“Alcoholism doesn’t look well on you, Thomas. It does on some people, but not you.”

Thomas laughed once. “That’s rather rude. And to think I shaved today.”

“I see that.” Philip said with some affection, turning to Thomas and running his thumb over the tiny razor cut on Thomas’s jawline. “I didn’t expect to see you in this state.”

Thomas looked listlessly out the window.

“Shall I guess?” Philip finally inquired. “I imagine it has something to do with James Kent.”

Thomas’s ears seemed to perk up at the name and he turned. But after a moment of silence he looked back at the window.

“…I loved him you see.” Thomas finally said quietly.

Philip handed Thomas his cigarette and watched the man inhale deeply, the smoke curling gracefully from his lips.

“And he loved me too.” Thomas’s words seemed to drift out from his lips and die in the air, dissipating with the smoke. “That is… He said he did.”

“I knew you’d be smitten with him.” Philip chuckled despite Thomas’s dour expression. “Though I suppose everybody is smitten with James. Not just because he’s good looking. Or atleast, I assume that’s not why **_you’re_** smitten with him. I suppose you’d like James for all the reasons that would scare other people away. You never make things easy on yourself.”

Philip reclaimed his cigarette, blowing a fume of smoke into the air above their heads.

“James is complex. But his complexity is so charming, I can’t help but rather like him for it.” he continued.

“As opposed to me?” Thomas offered, his lips curling in a sneer.

“Yes, exactly.” Philip tittered, “Thomas, you’re angry and bitter, and despise the world for making you that way. It’s charmless.”

“Well, thank you for that.” Thomas replied flatly.

“But for an artist it’s rather intriguing. Your complexity doesn’t lie in your ability to scorn and hate everyone- anybody can do that. But you have a great well of creativity in you and yet you can’t muster any of it to imagine how others might be feeling or imbue people outside yourself with any characteristics worth having. I suppose that’s why so many of your drawings are of fantastical things and strange places- the only beauty you can appreciate is in a world that doesn’t exist.”

“I wasn’t expecting a character analysis.” Thomas pouted, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

“And that’s another thing,” Philip chuckled, “For a dreamy artist you’re actually quite the pragmatist much of the time. Silly in love though. Almost shockingly so. It’s your Achilles heel- or I suppose I could say it’s your spot of redemption in an otherwise cold and vicious personage.”

“and you have a heart as hard and dry as a biscuit.” Thomas responded sharply, taking another swig from his flask.

“And what about your heart? Are you drinking so much because it’s breaking?”

Philip rolled his eyes and suddenly emotion cross Thomas’s faced for the first time since Philip had come in and he grabbed the duke’s arm in a vice like grip, glaring at him fiercely.

“Don’t.” Thomas between gritted teeth. “Don’t you dare mock me. Not over this. I don’t need to be looked down on by someone who doesn’t even know what love is.”

“And you think you do? Quaint.” Philip said, his lips curling in disgust.

“Don’t begrudge me for wanting a better life.” Thomas said, loosening his grip on Philip’s arm.

“I don’t think you’re very religious, Thomas, but I think you believe in a higher power and I think for you that higher power is love. You think it will save you and alleviate you of your sins.”

“Stop talking.” Thomas said, turning away from him and lighting a cigarette. He looked weary already.

“Jimmy is more important to me than you can possibly imagine.” Thomas said.

 _Jimmy?_ Philip thought, smiling with amusement. _How terribly low class sounding._

“I would’ve stayed his friend and never touched him as long as I lived if that was what he wanted from me. I would’ve done anything to keep him close. But I thought…” Thomas trailed off. He turned to Philip once more, looking him in the eye very seriously. “My whole life I’ve always felt whole. As a person. I’ve been self sufficient. Even at times when I despaired over loneliness, I didn’t feel as if I was lacking in some essential part of myself.”

“And now you do?”

“Yes. Jimmy is… an extension of my soul.”

Philip barked out a laugh. “Oh, good God. You should become a poet.”

“I might. If I don’t see him, I’ll never paint again.” Thomas said casually with a shrug.

“Oh, stop.” Philip guffawed.

“Now that he’s gone, there will always be something missing if I’m not with him again. I can’t explain it to you, but that’s how it is. If I try to break myself from him, in the process it will break pieces of me away that I can never reclaim.” Thomas’s red, beautiful, mouth was set in a thin line.

“What rot.” Philip muttered and to his shock Thomas dropped his head in his hands and his shoulders began to shake. When he swiped his hands across his face again, Philip could see he was holding back tears.

“I can’t… I can’t take any more of this…” he stammered, his breath hitching in dry sobs. “Waiting for him… not knowing what he’s thinking… I’ve never felt more alone in my whole life.”

Philip scoffed. “Oh, poor you. And what about James? He’s the one I feel sorry for in all of this. I wouldn’t be surprised if he really did love you back. Imagine how terrible that is for someone like him. To love is a terrible thing, Thomas. Especially when you thought yourself incapable of it. I’m sure James would’ve led a perfectly happy, loveless, life if not for meeting you. Maybe he’s run away because he thinks he still has a chance at it.”

He put his hand on Thomas’s back, between his trembling shoulders and smoothed his fingers down the starch fabric of his shirt.

“Maybe he’ll be better off without you.”

“I’m sure he will be.” Thomas laughed, wiping his eyes but his body was still overcome with the tremors of sobs. “But I can’t just… Can’t lose the best thing that’s ever happened to me. ‘Could never be happy.”

“Oh, do stop. I can’t stand your histrionics. You’re really awfully dramatic. I suppose it’s what makes your art so lovely but as a personal characteristic it’s quite tiring. Just think, now that you’ve experienced this great personal tragedy your art will be better than ever. You should be thanking James Kent.”

“I’ll never love again the way I love him.”

“Of course you will.” Philip scoffed. “Remember last spring when you fancied that sculptor with the red hair?”

Philip leaned down, brushing the tips of his fingers down Thomas’s cheek.

“You said then that you’d die of loneliness…” he whispered. “But you didn’t. And you won’t. Because I won’t let you die.” he spoke before pressing his lips to the artist’s and opening his mouth to taste him.

Philip was relieved that his mouth doesn’t taste too strongly of alcohol but he sucks any remnants of the flavor off his tongue anyway, lapping against his lips as he carded his hands through Thomas’s hair, curling his fingers into fists and pulling the artist’s head back. He felt the vibration of Thomas’s groan against his chest as he pressed their bodies together.

“You want this?” Philip hissed as he pulled away.

“Yes.” Thomas whispered, his voice cracking. His eyes were red rimmed when he looked at Philip and his hands trembled when they reached up to touch his face. Philip batted his hand away. He ripped open the front of Thomas’s shirt, two buttons clattering to the floor the only noise aside from their irregular breathing. He raked his fingernails down the front of Thomas’s chest, making fists in the dark hair there as he leaned down to bite and suck at his neck.

Thomas was desperate. Philip could feel his fingertips trailing down the back of his neck, grasping for purchase, his hips canting up against his own, dragging his trapped erection against Philip’s groin.

“No, you **_need_** this…” Philip corrected himself quietly, pressing his lips to Thomas’s neck and running his palms down Thomas’s thighs.

“I hate you, y’know.” Thomas’s voice was choked and rasping against the shell of Philip’s ear as he grasped the back of his neck, his body still rubbing against Philip’s in long strokes to achieve the most friction. “I **_hate_** you…” he repeated through gritted teeth as he dragged the line of his cock against Philip’s thigh.

“I don’t have to stay.” Philip responded coolly, a hard edge to his voice. “I don’t particularly want to have sex with a drunkard anyway.”

“I’m not drunk.” Thomas said firmly, his fingernails digging into the back of Philip’s neck quite suddenly. “And I do need this… I just don’t need you.”

Philip pulled away, frowning at Thomas.

“Is that supposed to hurt me?” he paused for a moment thoughtfully. “I think you like this because you hate me….”

He ran his fingers down Thomas’s torso. When he first met him he’d shaved his chest and it was smooth and hairless. “Always thought blokes liked it better that way I guess.” was what he’d offered as an explanation for it but Philip had convinced him to stop. “When I’m fucking a man I want to **_know_** I’m fucking a man.”

His skin was still pale as marble though, and so soft in some places. Philip knew all those places- the back of his knees, the underside of his upper arms, the slightly soft flesh beneath his ribs… all those places where the skin was so silken and smooth to the touch it was like rubbing one’s fingers against a flower petal.

Philip knew all of Thomas’s soft spots.

“Because it’s safer to fuck someone you hate.”

Hate was so much more reliable than love. And Philip knew that from experience. He and Thomas were tied together with the same twisted rope- neither of them liked eachother anymore but they kept coming back for the comfort of it, the nostalgia, for the release of frustrations that were never fully exorcised between them. They were unfinished business. A relief of boredom. Thomas only ever kicked Philip out when he had a boyfriend and Philip only refrained from seeing Thomas when he had a boy of his own. But like alcoholics in their moments of weakness they were drawn back to eachother, to the familiar taste, the familiar dizzying experience, even relishing the residual shame left afterwards.

Thomas didn’t respond with words but he sat up and wrapped his arms around Philip’s waist, untucking his shirt from his trousers as he pressed their faces together in a kiss. Philip grabbed his wrists, pushing him back down on the settee and took control of the kiss, leaning in deeper until Thomas’s head was pressed back against the arm of the chair. He wanted to devour Thomas whole, to get rid of him once and for all, to sate the hunger for him that had always lingered never quite being fulfilled. Thomas’s teeth sunk into his lower lip and pulled rather savagely until there was the salty taste of blood between their teeth.

Philip relinquished his grip on Thomas’s wrists to unbutton his trousers and pull them down and in an instant Thomas’s hand was on his cock, swiftly bringing his fingers across it in strokes so rough they bordered on painful.

“Looks like you need this too.” Thomas said breathlessly, reaching down to squeeze his hand tightly across the duke’s bollocks, his fingernails scratching ever so lightly. “Do you and your wife even sleep in the same bed?”

Philip panted out a laugh before grabbing Thomas by the arm and flipping him onto his stomach and grabbing him by the hair.

“You really are… a piece of shit, you know.” he said against his neck before sucking at his shoulder, hard, marking him as he rubbed his leaking cock against the exposed skin of Thomas’s back. He pushed Thomas’s face down, the grip in his hair still strong as he pulled down Thomas’s trousers revealing his pale, perfect arse.

“You might want to bite down.” he warned and felt a hard throb in his groin when he saw Thomas eagerly obey- biting down on the arm of the sofa. Philip slicked his thumb with his saliva liberally before he jammed it into Thomas, revelling in the muffled groan the man underneath him made in reaction.

“You keep opening your door to me. Letting me come back to you. Hoping I’ll tell you how pathetic you are and fuck you until you feel numb. Is that it?”

Thomas didn’t say anything but his hips jerked back against Philip’s prying fingers, his own hands gripping the settee so tightly that his knuckles were white.

“Well I can do that.” Philip panted, lining up his cock against Thomas’s arse and slowly sliding into the familiar tightness. “I can’t make you happy. I could never have made you happy. But I can always do this.” 

He wished he could see Thomas’s face but it was enough to see the pale body under him shudder with pleasure, to see every muscle tense with the force of each thrust. He could hear him whimpering and he gripped his hips even harder, pounding into him more ruthlessly. He wanted him to feel it, wanted him to be burning from it for days afterward.

“I’m the only one who knows how to fuck you like this.” the duke panted out, rolling his hips faster and more erraticly as he came closer to completion.

Thomas panted, stroking himself off as the duke grit his teeth trying to hold back.

“Oh.. fuck…” Thomas’s moans were lewd and there was perspiration glistening on his neck. He was so beautiful with his head bowed, his shoulders shaking as his arm worked to bring himself off. Philip buried himself in him, gasping as the breath was knocked out of him by the sensation.

And Thomas threw his head back and said “Jimmy… Jimmy…” as he came into his hand.

\--

Philip had always expected that he would lose Thomas before Thomas lost him. And he knew Thomas wouldn’t see it that way. For Thomas, the betrayal and the loss had occurred long ago when Philip had married a woman and told Thomas that he wouldn’t be the only man in his life.

But Philip had a very different brain than Thomas and had never been able to see the world in the simpler terms that Thomas seemed to see it in. He knew that even after love there were bonds that were deeper and more long lasting. For Philip, he knew the moment he’d lose Thomas would be when Thomas found someone who he truly loved and who could make him happy. Because Philip was the drug that was a balm to the pain (and worse- the boredom) of loneliness, but he wasn’t an antidote, wasn’t a cure.

Philip knew that Thomas, in a strange way, despite his prickly independence, was half of a whole. Not to say that Thomas wasn’t a whole on his own, but somehow Philip had always sensed that someday Thomas would meet someone who would match him not in likeness but in a sort of surreal magnetism. Like complimentary colors or two puzzle pieces that fit together. And when James’s name was on Thomas’s lips, Philip could still picture the expression on the boy’s face when he’d seen Thomas’s painting of the unicorn for the first time.

"Will you go after him....?" Philip asked without pretext as he sat on the settee, staring out the window. 

"....he doesn't want me." Thomas said quietly, shifting his position. Several moments passed and Philip found a pack of Thomas's cigarettes on the floor and lit one for himself. 

“Does your wife get angry? When you’re out late?” Thomas asked.

Philip took a deep inhale of his cigarette and blew the smoke into the cold, dark, air of the room. The moon was rather bright and Thomas’s skin was nearly translucent in the light.

“Oh, no, she’s quite used to it.” Philip said, lazily running his fingers through Thomas’s hair. The artist was falling asleep, his head propped up against the arm of the settee and his naked body curled up so that there was enough room for Philip to sit too.

“I’m sure you make her terribly unhappy.” Thomas mumbled sleepily.

“Well, if you feel badly, perhaps you can send her flowers someday. And put them in my name.”

“I’ll paint her. I’ll call it ‘the portrait of a lonely woman.’”

“She’s not lonely. She has even more men on the side than I do.”   

“That’s good.” Thomas said, his voice drifting off. “I’m glad.”

The room was hush and Philip stared out the windows. He disliked winter. But the snow made everything brighter at night. It reflected the moonlight, he guessed.

“Are you staying? Only have one blanket.” Thomas said, shifting slightly.

Philip smiled and ran his hands through his hair again.

“Go to sleep. I’ll be gone by the morning.”

Thomas had never asked about his wife before, had never mentioned her since the time Philip had first announced he was engaged.

\--

Thomas had learned a long time ago that self pity was useless and that no matter how terrible the slight or misfortune, eventually he’d have to muster his strength and pick himself back up again. It seemed to him that life was merely a matter of failing and trying again over and over for him and he wondered if that was what it was like for everybody else. Certainly he didn’t think Philip lived that way. While Thomas felt as though he was constantly treading water just to keep from drowning in rough waters, Philip’s lifestyle was more comparable to lying face up in a clear ocean with the sun beating cheerfully down on one’s face. Everything came easily to some people, and nothing came easily to Thomas- happiness and affection especially.

When he’d woken up in the morning, Philip was indeed gone but so were the empty bottles on the floor- probably the first time Philip had ever cleaned anything up in his life. It was the first thing that had made Thomas smile in several weeks. There was no note from Philip, no additional calling card that he’d ever been there, and Thomas imagined it would be a long time before he saw him again, which was just as well.

The day was cold and in the heatless studio, his breath came out in a visible mist. Everything in the room was tinted with the grey gloom of the winter light and it cast a dour coloring to the painting of Jimmy that stood still on the easel.

Thomas lit a cigarette, the match momentarily casting his hands in a warm light, and puffed on it thoughtfully as he stared at his lover’s face etched on the canvas.

He covered the canvas up with a sheet and walked back to his house where he packed his things and took a boat to Paris that same afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled to write an angry sex / hate sex scene that felt consensual and I had to rewrite several times. I hope that it felt consensual and non-abusive (if not super lovey) because that was kind of my intention... I didn't really want to write Philip as a "bad person". I consider him the anti-hero of this fic haha. 
> 
> This chapter was such a long time coming because I had to figure out where I wanted it to go exactly and tried several different options (like wrote out many pages in several different alternate ending kind of things) before deciding what I wanted to do. There will be one more chapter after this.


	4. A Rebours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the thrilling conclusion

“Monsieur, s’il vous plait ne pas toucher les oeuvres d’art!” the security guard called from across the room, taking a few long strides forward to the man whose back was turned to him and whose fingertips were brushing brazenly against the painting. But the security guard stopped in his tracks  when the man turned, and he resisted the urge to drop his mouth and rub his eyes in confusion like a parody, for the face of the man was the same as the face reflected in the canvas he was touching.  

-

It seemed appropriate that the next time Thomas Barrow saw Jimmy Kent would be in the spring.

It was a fickle spring as well. It had started quite cold with occasional light snowfall even as far as in late March. Thomas didn’t mind that because he rather liked walking in the snow and he thought Paris was beautiful at night, with all the lights sugar coated and the smoke from his cigarettes warmed and soothed his lungs the way cocoa did for cold children.

But the cold had receded into a crisp but not harsh breeze and the snow melted and reformed as flowers- bright tulips and butter colored daffodils and roses as red as the Paris flappers’ lipsticks. And life seemed to seep back into the city refreshed and rejuvenated, into every sidewalk crack and every patisserie.

The air was cool, not the type of humid suffocation that made one feel trapped in their own skin and seemed to lower the tolerance for boredom as well as inhibitions.

He was glad he saw Jimmy in spring. If it had been summer, he wasn’t sure what he would have done. And on later reflection, if it had been winter, it would’ve been too soon.

Thomas had spent the cold months after seeing Philip working. He lived in a small flat in Paris- a favor that an old patron of his from France owed him. And he was glad to have that patron to be his guide around the city as his own French wasn’t particularly good. When Thomas had first experienced fame for his artwork, before he’d even met Philip, he’d spent time travelling- to America once, to Germany, and to France.

Travel suited Thomas. To him, it was a comfort to wander a city that was unknown to him and in turn, where he was unknown. He liked the anonymity of not being an artist or a working class or a homosexual but simply “a foreigner”.  

But this trip he wasn’t merely a tourist, he was opening his new art exhibit at his patron’s gallery- all new work that he’d completed since coming to Paris. Well, new in a sense.  

Thomas had had a hard time reconciling his “muse”- he’d always thought that word sounded so pretentious and fantastical- his artwork was a result of skill and imagination, not the deliverance of some divine being. But even if he winced at the word, Jimmy had certainly been his muse and after losing him he felt unmotivated to work. Everything he did had looked terrible to him for months- he couldn’t think of anything worth painting and even trying to paint insignificant things around him left him sick with dissatisfaction at his own work.

He found it difficult to focus on the work when his head was never silent anymore- he worried he’d accumulated too many memories both sweet and bitter and that his mind would buckle under the weight of them. It seemed at any given moment he couldn’t help envisioning Jimmy Kent in some way or another- sometimes it was Jimmy, sometimes just his hands, sometimes just the places they’d gone together, the songs they’d listened to, going over again and again like a broken record.

Fortunately he’d found the cure had been instead of trying to ignore the constant buzzing of memories, to embrace them and put them into his artwork. As a nostalgic token, or perhaps because fate had warranted it, Thomas had brought with him to Paris several old sketchbooks (most only half filled which was his justification for bringing them) that included the scribbles he’d made together with Jimmy in autumn.

His exhibit was more Jimmy’s work than his own, he felt.

Philip was right- in many ways he was a realist. He drew what he saw. But what he saw was different from what anybody else saw. Jimmy’s imagination was pliant and would stretch, shrink, and take form to accommodate Thomas’s visions. The gallery walls were adorned with pictures of London, pictures of people, the way the two of them had seen them. People with exaggerated faces and shapes and clothing, people who were small and bleak looking, people whose faces told a story. The settings were colored by their moods on any given day, or atleast as best as Thomas remembered. Some days the sun felt like it was shining brightly and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky even when it was raining because Jimmy was in a good mood. Other times Thomas felt so deeply in love with Jimmy that everything looked drenched in honey and the air felt like it carried perfume in every breath.

The show had become popular. His patron called it the rejuvenation of his career, made more alluring by his time spent in isolation.

Thomas didn’t like to spend time watching people view his art. He didn’t see Jimmy the first day he came to the gallery, nor the second or the third day he came.

Only one of Thomas’s paintings had Jimmy in it- it wasn’t the portrait, just one he’d sketched from memory. It was Jimmy’s likeness but not his soul. And in the picture he was smiling and surrounded by rose blooms.

It was in front of that painting that Thomas saw Jimmy again for the first time in a year, staring, as he had for many days at his own face reflected back at him, standing perfectly still.

 _He’s not real_ … Thomas assured himself vaguely while standing in the room, the younger man’s back turned to him. The noise of the other people was drowned out and the details of Jimmy Kent fell into sharp focus. His suit was light grey, one hand in his pocket. The back of his head showed he still styled his hair in the neatly composed wave of gold that turned to a darker brown at the base of his skull and had strands of different colors in it like wheat.

“Jimmy….?” he said quietly, not coming to close. And the man swung around quickly.

He looked at him in such a way that almost made Thomas’s heart stop. All at once his body seemed to tense up and then relax- his face going from one of surprise to one of relief in a matter of insants. He looked like a man who’d been lost at sea and just seen shore.

In the past when Thomas had seen a former lover it felt like a scab being picked away- painful and slightly self indulgent. Now he felt something much more exquisite than pain. He felt as though a flood gate had opened and all the love he’d suppressed with rationalities came bubbling forth to the surface, drowning out the dull ache he’d learned to ignore months ago.

Jimmy’s mouth turned up in a smile. A genuine one. And he looked more relaxed than Thomas had ever seen him. Thomas couldn’t speak. Shamefully he felt his voice might crack if he did.

“I bet…” Jimmy started to say, his voice coming out breathless and dissolving into an incredulous laugh, “I bet you’re wondering where the bloody hell I’ve been.”

The laughter bubbled up out of Thomas like a release of every negative feeling he’d ever had… in his whole life. He felt weightless and full of light. And the two of them stood in the middle of the gallery laughing, oblivious to anyone around them. The feeling that his feet were barely touching the ground persisted when Jimmy asked if he wanted to go to a café and the entire walk he couldn’t keep his eyes off him.

“I was traveling. It was good for me.” was the most Jimmy offered up as an explanation and Thomas didn’t dare ask more. Not when he’d just got him back.

“Your artwork was beautiful back there. I’ve come everyday.” Jimmy said quietly as he ran his thumb around the edge of his teacup.

“Well, it was partially inspired by you. All the silly things we’d make up when we were in London.”

Jimmy smiled, avoiding Thomas’s eyes.

“Despite how restless I was in the studio, I’ve always admired your work. Your paintings are very… sensual. Whatever you put on the canvas seems to move, sweat, breathe as if it were a living thing.”

They sat in a comfortable silence in which Thomas was afraid to even blink. In his mind he was painting over all past images of Jimmy, the half remembered, often bittersweet ones, with the new Jimmy. Relaxed, with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his jacket draped over the back of his chair. Jimmy with the smile that didn’t seem forced and who wasn’t bubbling over with nervous energy.

 _Oh god, if he leaves again, please let me atleast remember him just like this_.

“Thomas.” Jimmy said softly as if he was savoring the way the name tasted on his tongue. “Do I look older to you?”

Thomas laughed incredulously.

“It’s only been a year.”

“It feels much longer. I feel a hundred years old.” and then Jimmy laughed again, “It’s quite a relief. I thought I would hate it, but it really is a relief.”

“What **_are_** you talking about…?” Thomas said, shaking his head. Some things didn’t change and it seemed Jimmy not making sense was one of them.

“Oh, just a working theory.” Jimmy said, smiling good naturedly. “In fact, the thing that bothered me most was wondering about you. So strange, that.”

He continued speaking nonchalantly despite the fact that Thomas’s whole body had gone rigid.

“But then I came to see your recent art and I knew that you hadn’t changed.”

Thomas smiled wryly. “I don’t think it’s in my nature to change easily.”

“I was betting on that.”

“I still have no idea what you’re bloody talking about. As usual.” Thomas sighed but he was smiling. He’d missed this part of Jimmy. He could imagine Jimmy’s face, his voice, even the warmth of his hands on his body, but no amount of imagination could recreate how ludicrous he could be and as was typical, Thomas felt more affection for him than he could feel annoyance.

“Tu aimes moi.” Jimmy said, a mischevious glint in his eyes. “That’s what I’m bloody talking about, you dolt.”

Thomas took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it.

“It’s ‘tu m’aimes’ in fact. Your grammar’s off.”

“Says the man speaking French with a Northern English accent.” Jimmy scoffed, nudging Thomas’s shin underneath the table with the toe of his shoe.

“Who says I do anyway?”

“What? Speak French with a Northern English accent? It’s pretty obvious.”

“No- who says that I…” Thomas sighed in frustration.

Thomas didn’t want to create trouble. He’d spend the rest of his life with Jimmy even if it meant being teased for his foolish love the entire time. If Jimmy didn’t want him as a lover, Thomas would love him as a friend. But the last time he’d let Jimmy in, he’d been punished for it.

Even so, Thomas knew he was prone to making the same mistakes over and over again.

“I can tell.” Jimmy said quietly. He stood up, leaning across the table and lifting his hand up to touch Thomas’s brow, running his thumb against his skin. “Because usually your face is all scowls or smugness or sometimes even apathy-“

“Oh, well, thank you **_very_** much.” Thomas managed to breathe out even with Jimmy touching his face and his heart stammering against his ribs.

“But when you look at me your eyebrows go up slightly. Like you’re looking at fireworks or a rainbow.” Jimmy continued, ignoring him, and tracing his fingertips down the side of his face. “And your face relaxes.”

His thumb stopped at Thomas’s mouth, running the pad of his finger across his bottom lip gently while Thomas stayed as still as a statue.

“And your lips part slightly and you smile just a little, even when you’re trying your best not to.” Jimmy’s eyes met his and they crinkled in happiness as he too smiled. “You can’t help yourself.”

“I’m sorry.” Thomas said weakly.

“You’re beautiful like that.” Jimmy said, keeping his hand where it was, still leaning across the table. The vase of peonies inbetween their empty teacups was brushing against the front buttons of his waistcoat. “Je t’aime.”

Thomas blinked, letting his eyes fall shut for a second too long as he leaned slightly into Jimmy’s touch.

\---

Jimmy was absolutely right- he couldn’t help himself. He’d put up no resistance to being drawn back into the younger man’s gravity and had taken him back to his apartment, eager for his touch.

They’d barely closed the door behind them before Jimmy had wrapped his arms around Thomas, opening his mouth against his and curling his fingers in his hair. They collapsed onto the bed, lips never far apart even as they pulled their clothes off- sometimes undoing their own buttons and sometimes undoing the other’s. Jimmy was already painfully hard, the tip of his cock leaking against his abdomen. Thomas dragged the heel of his hand slowly against the curve of his erection, his breath catching at the warmth and stiffness of it. Jimmy moaned and buried his face against the crook of Thomas’s neck. When Thomas wrapped his fingers around his cock and began to stroke him off, Jimmy dug his teeth in against his shoulder so hard that Thomas winced. Pain and pleasure.

“Please, Thomas, please, please, please….” Jimmy nearly sobbed, wrapping his legs around Thomas’s waist to pull him closer.

His hips jerked erratically into Thomas’s hand. “Thomas… Thomas…”

He needed him. Thomas wanted Jimmy to need him always. He wanted Jimmy to not feel whole without him. It seemed only fair. Everyone else Thomas had ever loved had seemed so whole without him, able to walk away as if nothing happened leaving Thomas with pieces of himself missing and broken. But Jimmy had never seemed fully whole to him. Jimmy was desperate and full of misguided, false, bravado, and boldness mixed with anxiety, apathy mixed with deep compassion and feeling that seemed to smother him. Thomas didn’t know what had left Jimmy with empty spaces inside him but he thought he could fill them, if Jimmy would only let him.

Thomas wrapped his arm around Jimmy’s back, pulling him close so that their cocks were pressed against eachother’s abdomens.

“Yes… yes…” Jimmy keened, tangling his fingers in Thomas’s hair once more and rutting his hips against the line of thick, dark, hair on Thomas’s stomach. “I’ve wanted… God, I want you so much, Thomas… everything…”

Jimmy’s words came out slurred as if he were drunk. “Touch me… please, touch me, Thomas…”

Jimmy guided Thomas’s hand from the center of his back lower until he’d placed Thomas’s palm over his arse and laced their fingers together, pressing his palm down further.

“Touch me here… I need you to…” Jimmy hissed, forcing his hips to grind slower with visible restraint.

Thomas pulled his hand away to suck two of his fingers, slicking them liberally with saliva before carefully pressing his index finger against Jimmy’s entrance. Jimmy gripped his shoulders for support and Thomas didn’t flinch even when the younger man’s fingernails began to draw red lines across his skin when Thomas pushed the finger deeper.

“Does it feel alright?” Thomas asked quietly against the shell of Jimmy’s ear, one hand still gripping him firmly on his side to hold his quivering body steady.

“Good. It feels good. God, Thomas. I need more of you…” Jimmy panted.

“….not tonight. Let’s go slow, yeah?” Thomas said, leaving a kiss on Jimmy’s neck.

Jimmy nodded but began to rock his hips slowly on Thomas’s hand, forcing the digit inside him deeper with each movement. He left a sloppy, open mouthed kiss against the side of Thomas’s mouth and whispered “Another… please… another.”

Thomas obliged, slowly sliding a second finger into Jimmy, pausing and kissing Jimmy’s temple every time the man made a sound of distress or whimpered. He wanted to take Jimmy possibly even more than Jimmy wanted to be taken, but he would be damned if he hurt him by going too fast. He held onto the optimistic hope that it wouldn’t be their last night together- that there would be other opportunities and that Jimmy wouldn’t run away in the morning again.

“Nngh…. yes… yes…” Jimmy moaned, bringing his hips down on Thomas’s fingers again and again while rubbing his cock harshly against the friction of the hair on Thomas’s stomach, until he gasped and his body went still for several moments, leaving a sticky trail of white against Thomas’s torso.

Thomas slid his fingers out of Jimmy but they stayed in the position for several minutes while Jimmy fought to catch his breath and Thomas held him steady, held him close, feeling the heavy rise and fall of his slender chest against his own.

“I’m alright… s’alright…” Jimmy mumbled finally, wriggling free of Thomas’s tight embrace.

“Lie back.” Jimmy instructed, pushing his damp blond curls out of his eyes. Thomas obliged and released a happy yelp of surprise when Jimmy immediately descened upon him and began lapping up the streaks of cum he’d left on his torso. With his hand he made a ring with his thumb and forefinger around Thomas’s cock and began working it up and down his painfully hard shaft.

“J-jesus… f-fuck, Jimmy…” Thomas exhaled tightly between gritted teeth, arching his back up into Jimmy’s hand, against Jimmy’s tongue leaving long stripes of dampness against the heated skin of his chest. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, a meager attempt to use the placid blackness behind his eyelids as an anchor to stop the moans and whines that were bubbling up in his chest. He snapped his eyes open again when he felt Jimmy’s tongue swirl around the head of his cock.

“I like the way you taste.” Jimmy murmured, pressing his lips reverently against the head of Thomas’s cock before sucking on it gently and then slowly taking him all the way into his mouth.

It was too much and Thomas covered his face with the back of his arm, chewing on his lower lip until he tasted blood to stifle the choked moans and gasps he couldn’t keep down.

Jimmy was sucking steadily, drawing the underside of his tongue along Thomas’s length with each time he bobbed his head down over him. Thomas couldn’t catch his breath with every stroke of that beautiful mouth making his chest tighten. He looked down to see Jimmy’s lips flushed pink and stretched over his cock, his hair falling over his eyes. It was all it took to send him over the edge. He gasped Jimmy’s name, his hands twisting into fists in the sheets until his knuckles were white, as he came. Jimmy kept swallowing him until he was completely soft and then pulled away with something akin to a slurping sound.

Thomas fell back against the pillows, spent and feeling light as air. Jimmy crawled on top of him and kissed him on the cheek.

“Good?” Jimmy asked, smiling. He looked calm, at peace. Like something in him had been tamed and sated through the carnal pleasure they’d shared.

“Bloody amazing.” Thomas laughed breathlessly, running his hand through Jimmy’s hair and pulling him close.

They spent the rest of the night curled in eachother’s arms. They didn’t speak but neither seemed to want to sleep either.

Thomas didn’t think he could be happier. He didn’t care if it lasted, he wanted to savor it.

Jimmy was warm and his skin was smooth. He could feel each breath, his pulse, his life….Thomas felt like his heart was drowning in his chest, overwhelmed by the feelings that piled atop each other with every moment he could feel Jimmy’s touch, smell his skin, have his fingers in his hair, and his chest rising against his cheek.

“I love you so much, I can’t stand it…” Thomas whispered, tangling his fingers in Jimmy’s and squeezing

\- - - -

They both woke up early, when the city was still quiet and the morning light was shades of cream and azure.

“I want to go back to England.” Jimmy said as they sat on the windowsill of Thomas’s apartment and shared a cigarette. “I want to go back to your studio. See how the light falls there in spring. See the flowers budding from the view at your windows… When are you going back?”

“Whenever you want to go back, I’ll go.” Thomas said solemnly, letting smoke curl from between his lips and out into the crisp morning air.

Jimmy smiled incredulously at him. “Really? Don’t you have to stay? To oversee your art exhibit?”

Thomas laughed, tapping the cigarette over the side of the window and watching the ashes fall down to the sidewalk.

“No. People are used to my anti social tendencies when it comes to these things by now. Ironically I hate art shows. Everyone who goes to them thinks too highly of themselves. They think looking at a painting with their head turned to one side and squinting while nodding appreciatively gains them points as an intellectual.” Thomas said before imitating what he meant- drawing his brows down and stroking his chin. “ ‘Ah, yes, Mr.Barrow. I see you’ve employed some post modern brush strokes to this pieces. Is it to reflect the decline of classism in England?’ and that sort of bollocks.”

This earned a laugh from Jimmy who took the cigarette from his hands and sucked in deeply.

“But they’re French. So atleast you won’t know what they’re saying, right?”

Thomas shook his head, assuming the same facial pose as before. “ ‘ Ah, Monsieur Barreau, votre art est si beau! Il me fait repenser detester les Anglais!’ ”

Jimmy’s eyes crinkled up in laughter again and he shook his head.

“Well then we have to do everything we can to escape these people. We’ll sneak away on a ship and get a room for two. We’ll tell the Captain of the ship that we’re Mr.Smith and Mr.Jones and we’re…” Jimmy paused to think about this, trying to keep the mischevious smile off his face. “…we’re half brothers.”

“No- two priests. In training. Born again Christians.” Thomas corrected him.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Jimmy agreed. “We’ve been living a bohemian life style in Paris but we’ve come to see the error of our ways and are returning to our homeland to shed our sinful former life and start anew as clergymen.”  

Jimmy leaned over to Thomas, running his hands down Thomas’s thighs and pressing their lips together.

“You’re not being a very convincing priest right now.” Thomas said.

“On the contrary, I feel closer to heaven whenever I’m touching you.” Jimmy purred, snaking his arms around Thomas’s waist and pulling himself onto his lap.

\- - - -

Thomas’s departure from Paris felt as spontaneous as his arrival and with the same feeling of beginning anew. He was glad that this time he had Jimmy who was fascinated by looking out at the ocean and who he thought was in danger of falling over the edge several times as he talked exuberantly about the places he’d visited in their year apart. All the while he held onto Thomas’s hand, his thumb rubbing circles absently against his palm.

\- - - - -

The knowledge that the portrait that had driven Jimmy away still stood in the center of his studio loomed heavily on Thomas’s conscience on the trip back and he wondered if Jimmy remembered. He still didn’t understand why Jimmy had left so suddenly in the first place. He’d never understood anything Jimmy did completely. In a way it was refreshing as Thomas usually felt other people were a bit boring and predictable. Not Jimmy Kent.

“S’probably covered in dust.” Thomas apologized as he stalled outside the door. There were buds of grass and weeds poking through the stones of the road and the house across the street had roses in bloom in a box hanging outside the window.

Jimmy’s reply was delayed. They entered the studio and Jimmy walked past Thomas as he closed the door behind them. The room was filled with a soft, white, light. It was a somber sunset on a day that had been mostly cloudy and the white painted floor looked like it was bathed in moonlight or covered in snow.

Jimmy’s portrait stood in the middle of the room with a sheet covering it. Jimmy walked past it and touched the glass of the window. When he dragged his hand down he left trails where his fingertips had wiped away the dust.

“I like that it’s dusty. Otherwise it would’ve felt like no time had passed since we were last here…”

Jimmy had been uncharacteristically quiet and pensive since they’d set foot on British soil. Back in the studio, where everything was covered in dust and not quite as he remembered leaving it, with Jimmy doused in the pale dusk light, Thomas felt as if he were in a dream. The kind that is mixed with memories and where you must stay respectfully silent so it can play out around you like a film.

“I feel like I’ve lived whole lifetimes while I’ve been away from this place.” Jimmy continued.

“Tell me.” Thomas managed to say, barely hearing his own voice. He’d have to shout just to be heard over the deafening silence of the room.

A small smile twitched across Jimmy’s mouth and he turned, leaving a faint shadow stretched from his silhoutte onto the floor.

“I’ve been a traveler, and a philosopher, a thief, a magician, a martyr…” Jimmy listed off, walking closer to Thomas until he was sitting down on the settee next to him, stroking his palms against Thomas’s thighs. “… a warrior… a lion tamer…”

He pressed his lips to Thomas’s briefly.

“A musician… a lover… a hermit… a saint….”

His hands stopped and he put his fingertips against the line of Thomas’s cheek. He could feel the dust from the window against his skin.

“And in every life I’ve lived, I loved you.” Jimmy looked terribly serious as he could sometimes look all of a sudden- as if his own words were magic and if he wasn’t careful he could destroy everything around him with them.

Thomas tried to smile at him but he couldn’t. Not when he was back in the studio where they’d met, where they’d first kissed, where they’d first made love, where Jimmy had left him alone.

“Then why did you leave me?” he asked, hearing his own voice come out cracked and weak. Jimmy’s face blurred in his vision through tears but he felt the younger man’s hands grip the side of his face tighter, pulling him closer until Jimmy’s forehead was pressed against his.

“You said you loved me and then you left me. And I didn’t even know what I’d done wrong. And I wanted you to come back so badly. I waited for you.” Thomas sobbed. He was too exhausted to care that the tears were streaking down his face now and that he was being childish. He wanted to be held and told that he was worth staying for, that he wouldn’t be abandoned. He’d never been told that before.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I was just… scared. I was so scared.” Jimmy whispered, rubbing his thumbs gently against Thomas’s temples. He could feel breath pass between their lips, a touchless kiss.

Thomas sniffed and wiped the tears from his eyes.

“I’m not so scary. Don’t let the rumors fool you.” he joked half heartedly, avoiding Jimmy’s eyes.

“I’m not scared of you.” Jimmy said quietly and stood up, crossing the room. Thomas stood as well, stopping a few feet away from Jimmy.

Jimmy pulled the sheet off the portrait and it cascaded to the ground with a soft noise that reverberated gently across the room and sent dust flying into the shafts of dimming light streaming in from the windows.

“God…” Jimmy chuckled dryly. “Even now…”

He reached out, fingers hesitant and nearly trembling, until they touched the matching face on the canvas.

“…It looks as if it could reach out and strangle me…” he whispered.

He turned his head to Thomas, taking his eyes reluctantly away from the portrait.

“It’s so beautiful. Do I look like this…?” his voice was still hushed, nearly reverent, and Thomas wasn’t sure how to react.

“You do to me.” he answered honestly.

“But I won’t look like this forever, Thomas….” Jimmy began and then his lips began to tremble and a tear fell quickly down his face, dripping onto his shirt. “You know that, don’t you? I won’t look like this forever…”

Thomas took a step toward him but stopped again.

“Of course I know that.”

“This painting will always be beautiful. I won’t be. I’m hideous and cruel sometimes. And I often don’t even mean to be. And I’ll grow old one day, and I won’t be so handsome and golden then.” Jimmy’s face was contorted in misery, his eyes scrunched up to hold back the pool of tears overflowing in them and his lips trembling violently. “If this is how you see me then I can never live up. I’ll grow old and one day I’ll be dead and I don’t want to be alone…”

He hiccuped and forcefully drew the heel of his palm across his eyes.

“A few months ago I would’ve given anything to trade places with that painting. To stay the same forever. I just wanted everything to be the same, always. I didn’t want to lose anyone, I didn’t want to change… I’d have given my soul for that!”

“But…” Thomas began, taking another step closer but Jimmy interrupted.

“But I couldn’t. Not even if I wanted to. It was too late because you already had all my soul.” at his own words he seemed to collapse under a weight of emotion and Thomas thought he might fall to the ground- his shoulders drooping and his head hanging. “And everything had already changed. It changed from the moment I met you. Nothing felt the same afterwards and I was so frightened.”

Thomas stood next to Jimmy and put his hand on his arm but with a feather light touch Jimmy put his hand on the center of Thomas’s chest, holding him back at arm’s length. He raised tear stained eyes to meet Thomas’s.

“People don’t love me, Thomas. They love… shades of me. Parts of me. They love the parts that I let them see. They love the way I look or the way I play the piano or the way I laugh. It’s easy to love those things. Who’s going to love Jimmy Kent when he’s a coward? Or when he’s fickle and moody? Or when I’m scared and I feel like I’ll drown on my own fears?”

“I will.” Thomas laced his fingers into Jimmy’s and held his palm against his chest.  

“You loved me in a way that I didn’t know I needed to be loved.” Jimmy said, swallowing when his voice cracked. “I was so scared that you didn’t see me. I was scared that you’d get sick of me. And that you’d be the only one in the world who could love me like this and that I’d scare you away.”

Thomas closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Jimmy.

“I love every part of you, Jimmy Kent. Even when you’re terrible I can’t help but love you.” he laughed weakly. “It’s pathetic. But it’s no more than you deserve.”

Jimmy’s hand was still clutched in Thomas’s in the space between their chests.

“And I’ll love you even if you’re old or hideous. If ya like, I’ll paint you new portraits every year and you’ll still be beautiful in every one even if your hair starts going silver or you get crow’s feet around your eyes. I’d love every wrinkle on you and think it was a masterpiece and that’s a fact, Jimmy.”

Jimmy laughed against Thomas’s shoulder and rocked his weight against him gently.

“I’m sorry I left you. It won’t happen again. Next time I have to find myself, I’ll let you hold the map.” Jimmy said.

“You don’t have to find yourself. I know exactly where you are.” Thomas mumbled into his hair, swaying lightly with Jimmy like a dance.

They stood that way until the tears had dried on both of their faces and then Jimmy leaned up and kissed Thomas’s lips.

“I don’t know how to love anyone, Thomas. I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. I’ve never even come close.” Jimmy said quietly.

Thomas untangled his fingers from Jimmy’s (both of their hands were nearly sore form how tightly they’d been gripping eachother’s hands) and kissed his knuckles tenderly.

“I’ll show you how then.” he assured.

The sky was bright that night and as they undressed Thomas watched Jimmy, enamored by the way his body looked drenched in moon and starlight. His muscles tensed, goosebumps raised on his skin, he was flesh and blood and so much more beautiful than anything that could’ve ever been created with stone- lovelier than anything that wouldn’t change, wouldn’t be in a constant state of flux the way Jimmy was. He was alive. That was the greatest artwork of all.

The air was brisk and Thomas pulled a red velvet blanket around them both as Jimmy straddled him on the settee. He could feel Jimmy’s blood thrumming as he placed his hands on the man’s ribcage to hold him.

Jimmy kissed him and rubbed his cheek against Thomas’s jawline where the beginnings of stubble scratched and caught against his skin, almost purring like a cat. They rocked their hips together and Jimmy let his mouth wander over Thomas. He french kissed his adam’s apple, ran his tongue along the hinge of his jaw, pressed his lips against the hollows of his cheekbones, left tiny bite marks on his sternum…

“Take me. Take me. Please.” Jimmy’s voice came out hoarse as he breathed raggedly and ran his teeth along the shell of Thomas’s ear. “I need you. Please.”

Jimmy lay back on the settee, the blanket wrapped partially around his shoulders like a cape, the ends of it still covering Thomas’s back. Thomas moved Jimmy’s leg, holding his thighs wide apart as he slicked his fingers and slowly began to crook them into his entrance.

“God… I-I can do it, Thomas… I can take you so…” Jimmy began to say defensively but broke off as Thomas added a second finger into a choked whimper.

“Don’t be too hasty… or you won’t be able to sit down comfortably for a week.” Thomas chuckled, staring admiringly at Jimmy’s face contorting with lust through the dark hair that had fallen into his eyes.

“A whole week? That’s awfully self congratulatory of you to say.” Jimmy managed to volley back, his lips curving up through the ragged breaths he was taking through them.

As he used his fingers to gently penetrate Jimmy, stretching him and working him in a slow rhythm, Thomas took his cock in his mouth.

He could hear Jimmy moaning and let his head bob down on his member in a pace that matched his thrusting fingers until Jimmy was squirming under him and canting his hips up into his mouth.

“I won’t last if you… Just do it now…. I’m ready- do it now.” Jimmy stammered, pulling Thomas’s hair gently to force his head back. He released his mouth’s grip on Jimmy’s cock with a final suck and ran the back of his tongue across the head to lap at the liquid beginning to pool at the slit.

The sound of their breath in time like a melody filled the room, echoing off the walls, as Thomas slid his cock into the empty space his fingers had left in Jimmy.

Jimmy’s back arched and Thomas’s name spilled from his lips brokenly as Thomas fully seated himself inside him, his hands squeezed around the curve of Jimmy’s arse for leverage as he began to very slowly move his hips.

“Alright?” Thomas checked, hearing his own voice coming out throaty and deep and tainted with accent. Jimmy threw his head back against the arm of the settee and groaned as Thomas went in deep again and nodded vigorously.

“God- it’s- it’s good- I feel- ohh…” Jimmy paused, his face clenching up then relaxing into bliss everytime Thomas moved inside him.

Thomas leaned down to kiss Jimmy, raising his hips up off the settee as he did and Jimmy wrapped his arms around his neck, holding them together that way- two twisting bodies tangled into one moving form, the red blanket a curtain on their act, spilling down Thomas’s pale back.

Thomas felt lost in the sensation of Jimmy’s warmth, pulling him in, clenching and then easing around him until the push and pull was the only thing he could feel, the chill of the dark room and the settee’s rough fabric against his knees, and the sweat pooling between his shoulderblades, all fading out.

“I can’t… I can’t…” Jimmy’s body was trembling under Thomas’s.

“Mmn..” Thomas grunted, moving faster, going deeper, until the lust curling in his abdomen felt knotted and nearly painful.

When Thomas came he didn’t see white behind his eyes, he saw colors, like sunspots, it felt like colors for an instant were all over his body, filling his veins with every emotion as long as it was passionate. And Jimmy at the same time had cried out brokenly, as his cock spent itself on his chest in thick white streaks.

Thomas pulled himself up so he could look at Jimmy’s face better and smiled at him.

“Good?”

Jimmy looked nearly drunk as his head lolled and his eyes fluttered open. He leaned his head to the side to kiss Thomas’s wrist and said “Bloody amazing.”

When Thomas pulled out, Jimmy lay still, letting his breathing fall back into a normal rhythm. He looked renaissance, sprawled out on the settee with the red blanket draped around him and the cum on his stomach the last artistic touch. Thomas dragged his hand through the liquid, finger painting across Jimmy’s stomach in light strokes.

“You won’t be gone tomorrow…?” Thomas asked quietly.

“Never again.” Jimmy murmured.

A cloud passed over the moon, and the light from the windows dimmed. And Thomas pulled the blanket over their bodies and curled himself up against Jimmy’s warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read the whole thing and have reviewed and left nice comments I really appreciate it.


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